Hermione Granger is a Whore
by BestSkeptic
Summary: Post Hogwarts. Draco approaches the Order with a peace offering, and they have no choice but to accept him. Hermione is quick to forgive, especially after a death in the family causes Ron to grow cold, and Snape discloses secrets of his past.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **Some of you might recognise this as an improvement (hopefully) of my previous D/Hr work, _Charms and Charisma_. But then again, some of you may not, as it was an abysmal failure that nobody read. Don't get me wrong; I write for myself. However, I publish for you and for my ego, both of which were not all too impressed the last time around. So here I go again. Lay on, Macduff!

**Pairing: **Romantically, I've decided to pair Draco and Hermione. It's a tad more complex than that, and it's not all that apparent here, but you'll see. If you don't ship Dramione, then go ahead and read anyway; you might have some sort of epiphany. Although maybe not, depending on my skills as an author. Which, by the way, may be lacking.

**Rating:** M. This chapter/prologue deals mostly with mature themes, but later on, things get pretty sexual, and, for the record, fucked up. There. I said it. First curse word of the story. Which is why this is rated M.

**Betas: **Nobody likes me enough to edit my stuff. If you do, by all means, email me or leave a review and I'll love and be indebted to you forever.

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Sex and grief. That's all war really is.

And it's always funny how things work out. It was probably about a year ago now that things began to end. It's the well-known paradox that every end has a beginning and every beginning an end. The beginning of that particular end began picturesque enough–well, as picturesque as that gruesome ending could have begun. It was before he came back into their lives, before families had been devastated by loss, and it was before the final, cataclysmic battle. People still had the old hope.

The old hope was in Hermione Granger. Everyone knew it. There was a war outside still raging, but there was a glow about her that just screamed "everything is wonderful in my life." Soon to be the newest Mrs Weasley–although she was not all too eager to take on that dreadful name–at a mere 21 years of age, she would follow in Fleur's rather dainty footsteps.

The proposal went a bit like this: They were talking one evening over a couple of butterbeers, and Hermione noticed Ron's face turn a shocking shade of green. He barely said a word the whole night until he choked on his third, managing to utter a quick "sorry" before letting Hermione commandeer the conversation with her boring gossip of Ginny's friend's turnabout with something or other; he wasn't paying attention in the slightest bit, and Hermione could tell in an instant. "Ron, you're looking positively awful," she noted, knowingly. He mumbled something or other and then the pale green hue of his cheeks turned a familiar red. "Crookshanks got your tongue?" The look she received in return was anything but amused, so she sighed deeply. "What is it?"

It took him nearly an hour to spit out "I... uh... I'm..." with various gulps and sighs in between, and then he was looking quite flushed and droplets of perspiration formed at his brow. Still as boy-ish as ever, despite his telling red stubble and defined features, he gulped again before digging into his robes and pulling out a quaint wooden box, and that was when Hermione knew. "Oh Ron, of course I'll marry you!" And she gave him a quick peck on the cheek so that they turned even redder before snogging him full-on, right in front of everybody in The Three Broomsticks.

The news was well-received at home, especially by Mrs Weasley–the oldest one–who immediately thereafter began the chapel arrangements and, much to Hermione's dismay, the wedding gown search. Every aunt the woman had owned some rancid hundred-year-old dress that was bound to make even the most strong-stomached of wizards hurl, let alone Hermione's muggle relatives who would hopefully attend. After nearly a week of bloody hell, Hermione politely informed her mother-in-law-to-be that her own mother had just called with news of her old wedding dress, and she thought it was only respectful to use just that. Meanwhile, she giddily shopped with Ginny on her own. Everything was as she'd imagined since she'd been a child, wrapping pillowcases around her head and marching down makeshift aisles with longtime muggle friends.

If everything static was not to be admired, Hermione didn't want to hear a word of it. She loved nothing more than to make list after list, whether it be shopping-related or one of potential guest records. Wedding plans brought order to the war for her. It was something she could organise, something she could control, something to which she was accustomed. All her friends were waiting for the proverbial knight in shining armor to sweep them off their feet and carry them horseback to some impromptu wedding, but as far as Hermione was concerned, Ronald Weasley and his family's traditions would do just fine. She'd had enough excitement for ten knights in shining armor over the past years.

And anyway, marriage was about stability. It wasn't that they didn't love each other passionately–because they did, and more than anything in the world–but if Hermione Granger had to choose order over passion, there was no question as to which one she'd pick. It was almost as though the fact that she loved him endlessly was a mere convenience. Marrying Ron was smart. There would be no surprises, and they'd be able to win the war as a team, bound by the covenant of marriage. She needed to be part of a team. She needed that support.

Ron seemed excited about it all, too. Although that was a bit of an understatement.

The rest of the Weasleys faced graver issues. Percy died in the second wave of attacks without ever a reconciliation with his family. The months later hardened Arthur's stern gaze; he'd seen far too much death in his time and knew that more was to come. For a brief time he'd been promoted to Assistant Minister of Magic after the suicide of Amos Diggory, but was forced to step down to his former position as Head of Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects in a humiliating resignation following incidents involving a mass muggle genocide by the Dark Lord and, of course, various mistakes made proceeding Percy's death. Again and again Mr Weasley found himself face to face with evil, and it was growing ever harder to protect his children and those they loved in such a dark world.

And, speaking of those they loved, Harry had grown into a dashing wizard of amazing ability. As an auror, he'd faced Voldemort twice, nearly killing him each time and in the process destroying at least two more Horcruxes. He still required guidance, however, and with Dumbledore long dead there was only one wizard to whom to turn–Severus, as he'd grown to call him–and the two learned to set aside their past differences to join forces in concealing Snape's true identity and protecting Harry from various assassination attempts. Snape may have treated Harry and his friends less than amicably during their Hogwarts years, but he was far from being any sort of bumbling idiot, and knew that his assistance was crucial to the Order's successes. He, after all, was now the most powerful wizard of the counter-revolution–second only in skill to Voldemort himself, which probably accounted for his fruitful treachery of the Dark Lord that still continued. The occlumency, however, was becoming far more difficult against He-Who-Was-Now-Often-Named, as the Dark Prince in his final hours began to suspect those who were close to him first. Snape knew that one of them would die very shortly. He needed Potter to hurry the bloody hell up.

But with Harry's maturity came his insecurity, and he was turning into a Hamlet of sorts right before the Order's eyes. He'd once been so sure...

"Ron?" He asked one evening in front of the fireplace, unnerved. He seemed oblivious to the fact that his best friend of such a long time was fast asleep. Ron emitted a groan and then uttered some inaudible rubbish. Harry didn't seem to notice. "I wasn't meant to do this, old git. I wasn't cut out for this. I'm not the wizard I thought I could be." Ron snored boisterously, catalyzing Harry's drawn-out sigh. "Sometimes I even wonder if my mum would have even cast that bloody charm on me if she'd have known how I would struggle–if she could've seen it. Oh, it's foolish, I know. So damned foolish. I just wonder, sometimes." Ron snorted. Harry seemed to have been comforted by his friend's lack of any sort of attention span, or consciousness. "I've killed wizards, Ron. I'm only 21, and I've killed men. I've killed people who'd whole families, with children--the children I'd like to have someday--all with the flick of a wrist and a thought in my mind."

"Harry." The familiar sound startled him before he recognized it as Remus'. "Harry, you know damned well why you've done these wretched things. To be remorseful is only human. Cut yourself a break."

Harry stared coldly at his closest mentor, neglecting the kind air in which the man meant his message to be taken. He lifted his frills above his hairline, clearly motioning to his scar. "You may turn a nasty colour on certain nights, but you'll never have to live with living, Lupin. It all rests on me--"

"–It shouldn't!" Remus interrupted.

"But it does! And the only fucking thing I can do is to win!" Harry nearly screamed at the man, through clenched teeth. Surprised at his own outburst, he receded and rested his head in his hands for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being such a prat. You don't deserve this." Lupin patted his best friend's only son on the back.

"Nor do you, my boy."

And that's sort of how the beginning of the end began, with sex and grief.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Wow, I'm amazed at the reaction I got out of the prologue. Thank you to all who reviewed. You made my day(s). Hopefully I won't disappoint you yet. Next two chapters, coming up!

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Hermione was sipping her tea over late evening chatter with Ron when the peculiar-looking owl dropped a piece of parchment into her hands. She shook her head sadly. Merlin knew what sort of cruel wizard would dye his owl pink. It disheartened her in a way, and she threw a strangely nervous glance at her fiancé before placing the mug on the table and devoting her attention solely to the opening of the letter.

"Well, what does it say?" asked Ron, who seemed oddly interested, almost as if he'd written the letter himself and was awaiting her reaction. It'd happened before; he was never one to opt for subtleties. Hermione sometimes wished he were less cheesy about expressing himself. There was something all too boyish about it.

She scanned the first few sentences and spoke just as Ron was considering whether Hermione heard him ask. "It says I'm needed for an inquisition. It's from Tonks."

"You? An inquisition? What in the bloody hell would they have to ask you?" Ron became unreasonably irate. Hermione would have considered this a sign of a practical joke, if only the letter hadn't seemed so urgent.

"I... I don't know. Shush, will you, while I finish reading the thing." Hermione scanned the rest of the letter, mumbling softly to herself. "A possible new member to the Order... potential threat... your honed Ministry law skills..." She set the paper down on the kitchen table of a fine oak, complementary to the burrow to which they had grown so accustomed. "The nerve of that tireless shrew! She's requesting I be a nag!"

"I can't imagine why," Ron chided. He then pretended to cringe as though he were awaiting Hermione's playful blow. It never came; she seemed preoccupied with her own worry. So much for her brilliant practical joke idea.

"I wonder whom it might be," she pondered aloud, then looked at him expectantly.

"What, don't look at me!"

"Oh, come on, there must be some miserable death eater out there. Would your father know?"

"Haven't spoken to him in a while," Ron shrugged.

"You are just impossible, do you know that?" Hermione did not await a response before outlining her agenda. "I should be well on my way by now, so I'll need you to take my watch tonight."

"Will do," Ron affirmed without looking up from his _Daily Prophet_, and Hermione gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing her winter cloak.

With a terse spin, Hermione apparated to 12 Grimmauld Place. She was always so precise about apparating, so graceful. Leave it to Hermione Granger to perfect magic to an art.

In stark contrast to her relatively smooth departure, she arrived in absolute pandemonium. A few members of the Order were coursing the hallways on the lookout (for what she was completely unaware–everyone was so paranoid these days), whilst others still were engaged in hot debates in the kitchen. The main distraction, however, was the not the noise in the foyer, but the lack thereof coming from behind a closed door in the far corner. Hermione assumed that it had been subjected to a silencing charm. That was the door; she knew it. Behind it, members of the Order harbored their newest convert. With wide eyes, she gulped and made her way for it. Her quick trot, however, was interrupted by a familiar hand on her arm.

"Hermione, how nice to see you, my dear!" It was Tonks, who immediately led Hermione away from the door to which she had proceeded before. Her hair was a silky lavender today. _Remus must've made her quite happy last night_, Hermione thought, grinning inwardly. "Oh, my, look at this mess; everything's in such a muddle. I'm sorry I couldn't explain everything in my note, as you may have discerned. Whilst you are quite talented in the, er, retrieval of information," Tonks shot Hermione a knowing glance leading her up a stairwell. "We thought you'd be the best choice for this particular subject. Here, right this way."

"Who is it?" Hermione asked, exasperated from making her way through such chaos so quickly. "Tonks?" Her question was ignored. Aurors could be so frustrating.

"Ah, yes, here we are." Tonks came to a complete halt at a door that seemed fit for a house-elf. _"Alohomora!" _Hermione's eyes widened. She'd hardly expected this. "Well, come along. What are you waiting for?" Tonks prodded before hunching over to enter the room.

_May as well_, Hermione thought, and followed the witch. The room, unsurprisingly, was of an adequate size, and that was all she could determine before locking eyes with those cold, silver irises.

"Granger," their owner weakly scowled from a seat at the far end of the room. He seemed jinxed into one spot. "How nice of you to join us."

Hermione was nearly taken aback. "Hello, Malfoy," she uttered through clenched teeth. "Long time no see." _But not nearly long enough, _she thought.

The flaring animosity that caused the room's deathly silence for only the two long-lost enemies was quickly interrupted by a familiar voice. "Miss Granger," McGonagall began, "I am sure you are aware of the reason you are here." Hermione nodded. "We have questioned this young man to the best of our abilities. I assure you that he can cause you no harm; he is currently under the influence of the Immobulus charm. Now then," the professor raised her wand. _"Muffliato!" _With that, Hermione knew that their conversation would be purposefully private. Mcgonagall looked around nervously, her face constricted into the sternest expression she could muster. "Congratulations on your engagement, Miss Granger," she said finally, as though she were biding her time.

"Thank you, professor." Hermione remained tense with those eyes still boring into her, even if his ears could not hear.

"There's a question we saved for your asking, and it is that of 'why?' I hope you can understand. I know you two have been through a great deal of turmoil."

"Yes, we have," Hermione concluded bitterly.

"Are you prepared?"

Hermione sighed. "Yes."

Soon the buzzing subsided, and Hermione was staring at a man who was so much of a boy not so long ago. A man who could hear any question she could pose, and, this time, would be obliged to answer, rather than rattling off some racist garble. _Filthy mudblood...oh Merlin_ Thoughts formulated in her brain as to what to ask him, but none seemed articulate or pressing enough to emit. She began once and then decided against it, gulping instead. Essentially, Draco had changed so little since the last time she saw him three years ago. His white-blonde hair fell in his face and its features were still so well-defined. And evidently, he still maintained his smarmy wit. But something had changed that made him the tired man sitting before her. His glance was not so much angry now as it was stern. It used to be unsure, but now, whatever its intent, it was steadfast. She cringed to know that he relaxed in his chair when his hands were still stained with the blood of the innocent.

"Why, Malfoy?" she asked quietly. "Why did you turn from Voldemort?"

She knew he was forbidden by social and physical bounds to giver her some snarky answer, and this put her at ease. Not now. Not if he wanted to join the Order. She figured there was still a chance, however–and a pressing one at that–that the Malfoy was here under strict orders of Lord Voldemort. The thought made tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. There was a long pause before he spoke.

"The Dark Lord has no alliances. He makes empty promises. Any man who follows him is fool to think that he shall reap any of His benefits. Immortality is not a widely desired trait, after all, even if it were to be shared. But I'm sure you're aware of this, Miss Granger. Or would it be Misses? Mrs Weasley?" His thin lips curled into a half smile. There it was. There was the subtle jest. He just couldn't resist, that rotten bastard. Her eyes hardened on his face, but he seemed unaware, or at least indifferent. "Why don't you ask Severus? I hold that his answer should be far more eloquent."

"Malfoy," Snape snapped from where he sat on the far end of the inquisitors' table. "Need I remind you, this banter is not in your best interest."

But in a way, it was of interest to Hermione, for Snape and Malfoy were quite similar in their manners, and, apparently, their actions. But she held even the cruel Snape in a higher esteem than she did Malfoy, in all his cowardice. Snape had done terrible things--awful things--but he executed his horrendous crimes like a true Machiavellian prince–for the greater good. And even knowing that his foul actions had probably won the war for the Order, he could barely live with himself. Anyone could see that from taking one glance at his pathetic, disheveled appearance. Or from looking into his empty eyes. _"Severus... please..." _was all of which he dreamt, night after night, but the recurrence of his most wretched sin was hardly a dream. It was more of a ghastly nightmare that had come true so long ago. He knew Dumbledore had his reasons, nonetheless. Dumbledore was a dying man. And Snape took orders from that man alone, as opposed to Draco who wasted away his adolescence as the classic Holden Caulfield. The boy was so easily influenced, so easily swayed, so weak-willed... What could possibly cause her to believe that his motives now were true? Ah, yes. Perfect.

"Malfoy, you've murdered wizards and muggles alike in cold blood. Children–" Hermione felt a lump growing in her throat, but cleared it and continued. She did not wish to imagine her child at the mercy of Draco Malfoy. "You have the reputation of a slug." She paused to watch the flicker in his eyes. "You've committed countless hate-crimes under the orders of Voldemort. Bloody hell, you've committed countless hate-crimes under the orders of your own disturbed mentality! What could possibly cause any of us here to believe now that your motives are true?"

The blond man looked solemnly into his map for a few moments, then stared again at Hermione with the piercing blue eyes that frightened her so deeply. She could have sworn he smiled sadly before subjecting her to hours of shocking conclusions and rationale that forced the young witch, by the standards of her own morals, to give her approval to the Conversion Board of the Order. Draco Malfoy, as an official member of the Order of the Phoenix, would now receive the highest level of protection offered to any wizard, and Hermione was, however grudgingly, compelled to provide it.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I'll admit the last two haven't been my favorite chapters (this one and the previous one, I mean. Not the prologue). If they aren't yours either, don't give up on me too easily. Things start to get pretty interesting after this.

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Ron yawned and walked sleepily into the kitchen. The figure hiding his face behind a copy of some muggle newspaper–BBC News, it was called–watched silently as the red-haired wizard brewed himself a cup of coffee. When the figure behind the paper nonchalantly flipped the page, needless to say, Ron had quite a fright.

"What in the name of Merlin–" Ron could not even manage to complete his thought, but merely stood there with his mouth agape.

Malfoy turned down his newspaper and uttered with an air of boredom, "Good day, Weasel."

"What in the bloody fuck–_Petrificus Tota–_"

Malfoy had beaten him to it with a silent incantation.

The blond man glanced at him coldly. "Your fiancée came to me last night. She was quite flushed, if I do recall correctly." He smiled as Ron's face contorted sharply. "Well, don't get your knickers in a knot," he remarked snidely. "I meant it in the most literal way possible. Although, I'm not Granger, so I can't possibly know what was going on between her legs." Draco sighed. He was in control. "I'm sure you'll be delighted to discover that it was my inquisition to which she was called last night. I'm your convert." Malfoy raised his hands as if admitting to a crime and flashed a shameless, wicked grin. "We're on the same side now. The irony is just brilliant, neh? I bet you thought I'd not a single shred of morality left in my bones."

He said it as though nothing were the matter at all, as though he were speaking to an inanimate object. And so, when he ceased his diatribe, the only thing that had changed was a mound of Weasley blocking his direct sight of the kitchen counter. For a few moments, he said nothing and continued reading an article on a mysterious sighting on an obscure London back-road. Stupid muggles, always so ready to believe that aliens were, in fact, visiting the earth on a practically daily basis.

"_Liberacorpus!" _came an angry voice from the doorway. Ron was released onto the hard wooden floor and scrambled to his feet and then to Malfoy. He immediately threw a punch in his enemy's direction, which was not blocked by a spell, but by Malfoy's quick reflexes. He gripped Ron's wrist so firmly that it caused Ron pain, but so effortlessly that he continued reading the newspaper as if he had simply swatted a fly. Hermione's voice seethed with anger, and she stormed over to where the two men were situated at the table, all the while shooting fiery glances at Malfoy. He pretended as though he hadn't seen, and didn't even look up from his reading when she pried Ron from his grip. "Come with me, Ron, we need to have a little chat."

"Damn right we do! What the hell is that git doing at my kitchen table? I swear, if I see him one more time, I'll kill the bastard. I'll blast his fucking head off so fast he'll never know what in the bloody hell ever hit him. I'll kill him!"

"Ron," Hermione said softly, leading him to a room across the hall. "Don't yell such horrid things. He'll think you've gone positively mental."

"What do I care what that prat thinks? More importantly, what did you know about him being here, and why haven't you told me? Dammit, Hermione, he cursed me! Didn't even give me a fair shot!"

"Ron."

"That bastard. The nerve of him!"

"Ron!"

"What? What do you have to say in your defence? You know, for not warning me that my worst enemy was sleeping in my house?"

"Ron, he was admitted into the Order."

"What?" Ron bellowed. "What? Who in his right mind would do such a smarmy thing? Which one of them let him in? I'll show them a convert!"

Hermione exhaled deeply. "I did."

"What?" This time, the question was weaker. Ron asked it breathlessly, as though he'd just been punched in the gut. His anger was instantly quelled. "You? But why? What on earth..." his voice trailed off.

"There was sufficient evidence–"

Then his ire was immediately reinstated. " 'Sufficient evidence?' Sufficient evidence my arse! What did he do for you? Pay you? Did you have a nice shag?"

"Ron! Don't say that, please!" Hermione stared at him with solemn, anxious eyes.

"Why not? Does it arouse too many guilty memories?"

"Ron!"

He ignored her pleas. "So, how is he in the prick department?"

"Ron," Hermione gasped, tear-ducts nearly filled. "Please..."

"Oh, it was that good, eh?" This comment sent Hermione over the edge and she burst into tears, garnering a reproachful look of horror on Ron's face. Sobbing, she desperately wiped her face with her hands, but couldn't staunch their flow. Her nerves were shot and this was the final outcome, she supposed. After an already emotional evening, Ron's assumptions were too much. Did he honestly believe she would shag Malfoy? Probably not. But he was so quick to anger and jealousy. Such were not valued traits during the war; they would not be valued traits in their marriage. It all made sense in her tears. Which was probably why she couldn't stop them.

Until then, Ron had been too stubborn to embrace her, and still did not, but grudgingly offered a curt "sorry." Tears still streaming down her face, she sat down on a ratty-looking couch and dropped her head in her hands. She was ashamed to let him see her cry, even now, even after all these years. And even after all these years, Ron was oblivious and terrified. "Hermione, don't cry... I didn't mean it," he said in an attempt to calm her down. "Well, not all of it," he added as an afterthought, sending her once again into fits of sobs. Finally, she'd composed herself well enough to speak through the tears.

"He brought us a horcrux, you twit!"

Ron's skin turned white. He was utterly flabbergasted, and for it, felt awful, but stubbornly stormed out of the room. He couldn't let her have the satisfaction of knowing he was wrong.

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Harry awoke later than the time to which he had grown so accustomed; the sun at this hour stood at a higher angle, enlightening the left side of Ginny's face instead of her right, as she slept in such a complacent manner that he could have mistaken her for dead. Her lips maintained a knowing smile as she dreamt, and all he wanted to do at that moment was ensure that her dreams would never be as horrific as the ones induced by his scar. But he couldn't protect her from everything.

They both had been so heart-broken by the beginning of his supposed seventh year that Harry could barely concentrate. That was when Snape suggested he quit being so childish and embrace the one he loved before he'd regret it. Normally he would have question what Snape knew about love, but he did strangely seem to be speaking from experience. What experience, Harry knew not, but he still could sense it was there.

That was Harry's and Snape's first man-to-man discussion, although they'd had many before that Harry considered man-to-monster. He'd never in fact discerned the true reason for Dumbledore's trust of Snape, and the only other one aware of it was McGonagall, who appeared steadfast in her mission to keep the secret. She assured him that when he was ready, he would know, but he thought that was utter rubbish. Harry couldn't give a rat's arse about what McGonagall thought about it, and eventually he stopped inquiring and began to trust and respect Snape for the man he was, not the man he had been. He was mature in that way, and, after all, he had to be–he had the whole world standing heavily on his shoulders. Needless to say, Remus had a drastic influence on this decision.

Harry kissed Ginny gently on the cheek and rolled out of bed. He picked up the most pleasant-smelling shirt he could find, which wasn't all that pleasant-smelling after all, and donned it because he knew that Hermione would do his head in if he walked around the house shirtless again. He always thought that it was because she'd secretly found him positively shaggable.

"Harry," a low voice summoned as he flew down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He whipped around.

"Severus."

"There is a pressing matter of which I must inform you."

"I was a bit busy last night, okay?" Harry retorted defensively.

"That is of little importance." Snape exhaled sharply and flipped his long hair, seemingly annoyed. The world revolved so closely around the Potter boy that even the war was beginning to lose its importance in favor of his sexual exploits. This was bothersome. _Yes, very bothersome indeed._ "Early this morning, a conversion inquisition took place. You may have been aware of Miss Granger's absence, or you may not have, considering your," he paused slightly, considering how this might provoke him. "Activities last night."

Harry became annoyed himself, but erred on anger. He seemed to be preoccupied with the thought that Snape could be preoccupied with his love life, even if the latter was untrue. He furrowed his brow. "That is none of your business."

"Ah, yes, but it would be all the much nobler of you to keep up on current events, so to speak."

"Sometimes, professor, you can be very bitter." Harry paused to examine the solemn expression on Snape's face. "But just because you never found the love of your life doesn't mean I can't take pleasure in mine, to pardon a pun."

He just didn't get it. Nonetheless, disrespect would not be repaid with a favor.

"Mr Potter," Snape sighed coldly, staring into the eyes that once belonged to the boy's mother. "Things are not always what they seem." And with that, the tall man turned and left, dark cloaks billowing behind him.

"Professor! What was the original matter?" Harry called after him, but his attempt seethed in futility. Thus, he became very annoyed before stopping in the library to pick up a book Hermione had suggested, _Muggle Literature through the Ages_, and then nearly angry before reaching the kitchen, when he heard an even angrier, familiar voice.

"Harry!" Ron's cheeks were flushed. "Don't you dare go in that kitchen or I'll hex you! Hell, you'll hex yourself!"

"Ron? What's the matter?"

"You'll never believe what she did!"

"What who did?"

"Oh, I think you know very well who. Or at least you'd be able to take a guess."

"Your mum?" Harry was dumbfounded.

"No, stupid, Hermione!"

"Oh." Harry was less than enthusiastic to listen to another one of Ron's pointless ramblings. "What is it this time?" Ron merely groaned. "Ronald, use your words!" Harry teased.

"Harry, this is not funny!"

"Okay, okay, Ron, what is it?"

Ron's face whitened. "Malfoy."

"What? Malfoy what? I thought he was in Azkaban."

"No, no, the other one. The worse one."

"Draco?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

"He's–he's–"

"Oh, Ron, I haven't got all year."

"He's here, Harry!"

"What?" Harry stood flabbergasted. "What?"

"Hermione...last night...inquisition..."

"Are you positive? There must be a mistake!"

"I'm sure. I've seen him with my own eyes, right in your very kitchen!"

"I'll kill him! I'll hex his arse off!"

"Well, that's what I tried, too! But Hermione found me just before I knocked his face out. I was so close–"

"What in Merlin's name is that twit doing in my house?" Harry roared.

Ron mostly ignored Harry's rant, because he certainly would have admonished Harry for assuming the burrow to be his house. The Weasleys were just being _hospitable. _Sometimes Harry could be so possessive. "That's just the thing! At the inquisition last night, he was the convert! We can't touch him! Bloody hell, we have to protect him!"

"How on earth–"

"She said that there was 'sufficient evidence.' Said he brought them a horcrux. But I think he just showed her a good ride."

"Oh Ron, don't have a cow. That's absurd; Hermione's the one who hated him most. She was always the 'filthy mudblood.' People don't change their affections over night, and especially not her, when she's always had that bloody rod up her arse." Ron looked down, embarrassed. "I'll bet you accused her of it, too." He nodded. "I'll go talk to her. Better yet, I'll send Ginny."

"But what do we do about Malfoy?"

"Well, if he's stupid enough to touch us, the deal's done, right?"

"I suppose so."

"I'm not going to let him get away with my morning pumpkin juice, after all." And with that, the decision between friends and enemies was made.

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But Malfoy was not in the kitchen, so Harry would have a grand time drinking his pumpkin juice. He'd put down his newspaper to explore the house. He was amazed by Weasley's sense of style, but then remembered that the house had formerly been kept by Death Eaters. But of course.

_Not _but of course. He'd have to grow used to an Auror pride. Death Eaters were the enemy now; they no longer gained respect or admiration. Hell, they no longer gained the title of _human_. They were monsters. And to some extent, Draco accepted this. It was one of the reasons he'd turned over. But he hadn't been a monster when he'd been a Death Eater. Brazen, naive, sharp and careless, maybe. Maybe he'd been apathetic or even cruel. But what Aurors weren't? And he still held those intrinsic values that the "right side" so esteemed, even then. Maybe those values, thus, were not limited to one side or another. Blood was spilled on both sides, after all. And both sides fought for what they believed was right. One of them, in his opinion, had happened to be wrong, and it took him twenty-one years to rid himself of the brain-washing executed on him to make him believe differently.

Death Eaters were like foolishly religious muggles. They did what they thought was appropriate not because they'd sorted it out logically or morally, but because they knew that by doing so, they'd reap certain rewards. There was no philosophy to the dark side–it was immortality or death, and whatever could make its followers live longer, they chose, without considering the consequences. And, in truth, some actions were quite logical, but their operators had not found the logic behind it. Sometimes it was better to not fulfil duties than to execute the correct one in the incorrect mind frame. And when it came down to the be-all end-all of things, nothing could give the Death Eaters immortality. They could only give their master immortality. And what had their master gained? Misery? Oh, but he was so past misery.

He'd made this decision long ago but knew that nobody would believe him if he hadn't something significant to offer. So he spent years secretly searching for the horcrux. And finally, a month before, he'd found it. Took him hell to bring it back, but he had to do it. He had do have the satisfaction of knowing he'd finally chosen what was right, not just what was easy. He wished so deeply that Dumbledore was alive to recognize his choice, finally.

Lucius would probably kill himself if he hadn't already in Azkaban. And his mother was too much of a dumb bitch to know any differently. She'd probably think for a moment that she'd failed as a mum, and then go back to decorating and refurnishing the kitchen. Or maybe the water closet this time. She reminded Draco far too much of Pansy. Sex on a stick, yes, but deep as a puddle. Pretty much the only thing they ever dwelled on besides party arrangements and house decor was their sex appeal, and it only made them slimier tarts than they already were. But sure, Pansy was a good fuck every once in a while. He would miss that. She could never understand.

The second door he opened was that of some sort of lounge. But the sofas and portraits were not the room's surprising factor–it was the image of the mudblood–er, _muggle born_ sitting silently on a ratty love seat. She gasped at his presence.

"Draco," she said coldly. She was angry at him for this. Her relationship with Ron was in shambles, and it was all his fault. Right?

"Granger." He nodded. "Good day."

"I'm sure it would be, for you," she snarled.

"Hey, hey, no need for the arse-on. What's it, that time of month again?"

"Unbelievable! You probably think you deserve to be here. You probably think it was a matter of time, and that it would be so easy for us. Hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but you've had it the easiest. So if I were you, I'd just shut up and sod off while I was ahead." Hermione got up and attempted to leave the room, her hair twirling behind her. But Draco grabbed her shoulders violently with strong, roughened hands and spun her around.

"Don't you _ever _think for a second that this was easy for me. Don't you _dare._" He shook her once before releasing her, and she emitted a frustrated cry before continuing on her merry way to Merlin-knows-where.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Ahh, I forgot how much I love reviews. A big thanks to everyone. I hope any questions will be cleared up shortly.

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"_Your compassion shows weakness, Severus," the dark man chided._

"_Give her the choice," Snape sternly maintained. "Tom," he added cooly, garnering a slap across the face from his master. It didn't faze him in the least. "Give her the choice," he paused, but decided against using the man's first name again. "Or it'll be the greatest regret of your life, I swear it."_

"_Oh, Severus, don't be naive," Voldemort snarled, red eyes ablaze. "You and I both know just as well that the second you start taking orders from that optimistic fool, you're as good as dead." Snape noticed his lord could not even bring himself to say the man's name. _Dumbledore

"_Oh, but I don't think that would be the case," he exhaled complacently. "I doubt I'd do you a fat lot of good dead, either way." He paused, and then his tone became more urgent. "You need me, master." He emitted the word "master" sardonically, with a twist and curl of his thin lips. His master was not pleased. "You need me because I'm the most powerful wizard there ever was, save _Dumbledore_," he said with relish, "and yourself, of course." That bit, however, was emitted in the most admirable tone. "I'm beginning to think," he inserted another pensively placed pause, "that there are times upon which you are... afraid of me." The Dark Lord's expression did not change, despite the glimmer in Snape's dark eyes. "Would be an abhorrent shame if we had to duel on opposite sides, then."_

"_Bluffing? To the Dark Lord?" He let out an empty laugh. "You'd never defeat me. No wizard can surpass my greatness. Not even..."_

"Albus_?" At this, Voldemort spit in Severus' face. He moved his long forefinger to remove the thick sputum impassively, as to give Voldemort no sign of his impotence. "Save the girl," he affirmed, and by the look on the Dark Lord's face, he knew the feat would at least be attempted._

Severus Snape awoke in the late afternoon in a thick sweat, breathing heavily. He guessed he'd managed to doze off. He hadn't had that dream since Dumbledore had jinxed him upon joining his forces. He supposed that with the man's death, his magical influence in worldly matters was slowly weakening. It was about time, but enduring such painful memories would be less than salutary to his efforts. At least it hadn't been a dream of _that night_. He shuddered at the mere thought of it.

Dumbledore had always been far too trusting, but his judgement of character was never too far off nonetheless. Above all things, he was set in believing love as the universe's ultimate determiner. People were always doing the most peculiar things whilst in love, it seemed. Dumbledore was quite observant, and for all his years, such a prominent factor could not be blatantly ignored. But Severus questioned the validity of his opinion. Had Albus Dumbledore, a man who fancied socks and sweets about as much as he did women, ever truly experienced what it was to love and lose and do unspeakable things consequently? Thus, his trust was true but weak. And men who wore their hearts on their sleeves nearly always fell to torturous destruction. In that way, his one true enemy was correct. Severus was grateful, nonetheless. The light wizard was always right, anyhow, thank Merlin.

Too bad Harry never shared the same trust as his most favoured mentor. Like his father, he remained brazen and quick to judge, acting on impulse depending on his influences. He'd probably felt remorse or even rage upon viewing Snape's most hated memory _(That precocious little prick, how could he have invaded his privacy like that? Mortified him like that? Again?)_, and maybe wondered how on earth his spotless father had managed to conjure up such cruelty. All children have some drastic epiphany–a moment in which they discover their father's moral mortality. Draco had his; but that was Harry's. Harry probably had felt empathy–_empathy!_ for him then. Probably thought he knew what it was like. But Harry would never know what it was like–the way Snape truly burned internally. Harry had his friends, his girlfriend, and countless adoring advisors. Snape couldn't even manage to keep a hold on the only spitfire of a woman who ever... Oh, it was no use dwelling on the past. What was important was that Harry would never know, and that killed him. And then there was _his _moment, with _his _father...

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Ginny and Hermione were giggling boisterously over a few butterbeers when Ron entered the room. The girls did look truly astonishing when they laughed–Ginny glowed, and Hermione, well, Hermione had always been gorgeous, in a rather unconventional way, of course, even before she got out of that awkward teenage stage. The laughter quickly subsided upon his entrance, however. Hermione never lifted her stare, but Ginny switched between the two, shooting equally as nervous glances.

"Oh, look at the time! I must be off," she said before leaving the couple alone. Of course, she'd managed to squeeze in a girlish grin and wink aimed at her best girlfriend. In her absence, they stared at each other for a few stern seconds.

"Ron."

"Hermione." Another pause. Now beads of sweat formed at Ron's brow and he ran his fingers through his fiery red hair. He took a deep breath. "Hermione, we can't go on like this forever, you know." Hermione maintained her unforgiving stare. "Er, I mean, well," Ron's cheeks flushed a bright red. "It's just that," Ron was at loss for words again. "Here." He leaned in for a repentant kiss, but before he reached Hermione's lips, she turned aside, leaving him munching on a fistful of golden-brown hair. He stepped back, hurt.

"Ron, it's not like that. You can't think you can fix everything with a _snog_. You hurt me, Ron, you just never think about what you're say--" Her impassioned monologue was interrupted by an even more passionate kiss, despite her attempts to prevent that form of reconciliation. Ron's roughened hand found her cheek and his other brought her to her feet to share their embrace from a more comfortable position. He pulled her close to him, and at that moment, Hermione thought everything would be alright. She spoke breathlessly after a release. "Ron, do you _honestly _think I'd do _anything_ with that pretentious git?" It was a laughable proposition, but Ron's face hardened at the sound of it.

"Well, I mean, you never know," he spat resentfully.

She pushed him away. "Unbelievable!" Rage burned in her honey eyes once more. "Ronald Weasley, you'll just never learn, will you?" she nearly screamed before stamping out the door.

She walked purposefully, running her fingers through her hair and brimming with hatred. How could someone she loved so deeply be so unsure of her affections? How could– _thud._ She found herself staring into the blackness that was Draco Malfoy's robed chest.

"Don't you ever watch your step, mudblood?" he remonstrated her. Judging by the scourging look on her face, she was not in the mood to deal with such banter. "Or do you have something on your mind?" His tone, whether intended or not, was dripping with sarcasm.

"Move aside, Malfoy," she instructed coldly.

"Ho ho, a bit resentful, aren't we? Tsk, tsk, and to think, after _all _we've been through," he wondered with a mocking nostalgia. This seemed to get her attention. A wave of hair whipped around and soon she was staring him down, wand in hand. With a quick flick of her wrist, the wand was pointing squarely at the chest into which she had previously crashed.

"Say another word, and I'll hex you into the next millennium," she fumed.

"Granger," he gnarled. "Don't think too much of it. He doesn't mean it; he's just unsure. That's his nature. He's got a lot to think about."

Hermione renewed a hopeful, innocent look. "What?"

"Just what I said. Oh, don't seem so surprised, Granger. It's not like it's anything new."

"No, it's just..." she thought for a moment. "Thank you."

He then donned a horrified look as though he were expecting a hug from her. "Don't get so emotional on me. It was the least I could do. Cold Malfoy blood may run through my veins, and I may be cruel and ruthless, among other things which I hope you've overlooked considering our... situation..." He raised his eyebrow wickedly. "But if there's one thing a Malfoy is not, even _Draco _Malfoy, the apparent betrayer of them all, it is ungrateful. I won't lie; I owe you much more than this petty pep-talk." And with that, he was gone.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: **This one's long as hell. For me, at least. But I think it's got some substance, so don't give up on me!

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Harry Potter knew suffering, but this was torture.

It was the calm before the storm, and he could feel it in his bones. The sort of foreboding that could take years to shake.

Or just the time until the final battle.

A few days had passed since Hermione's and Ron's altercation, and, in fact, nothing had changed all that much. Severus's nightmares still prolonged their torture, Draco was still invariably ignored, and Harry still had an inner battle to fight.

Ginny lay nude in his lap, silent, as he stared at the fire he'd conjured earlier for the sake of romance. But before they'd done the deed, he changed his mind. She was hurt and confused, and he would not give her any insight as to why he'd refused her. How was Harry supposed to convey to his only love his insecurities and fear of leaving her in the coming weeks for whatever came behind the veil? _Neither can live while the other survives... neither can live while the other–_ The words ran through his head and he emitted a frustrated scream, bright green eyes glistening in pain and ambition, but mostly that same fire that he feared would turn green at any moment. Ginevra did not look up and Harry wondered whether his cry had been audible. Of course it had. She was just too proud to ask him again why he'd turned her down. _Women._ The irony of it all was that he probably would have told her then, too. But not without an inquiry. He stroked her head for a few moments until he saw blood running through his fingers and soiling her lovely red hair. He resisted a scream this time, however, and merely stared at his hands that dripped blood enough to overflow the seven seas.

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"He's compromising the success of the order!"

"Severus, he's barely a man," Lupin cooed. "You know as well as I that only one responsibility rests on his shoulders–a responsibility that has nearly crushed him, as you so denoted–and the rest remains for us."

"He will not be able to accomplish even that, if he continues to pursue this–this incoherent and, dare I say, promiscuous diversion. Mediocre wizard no longer, I must contend, we should hold him to certain expectations that we had certainly met at his age or younger, and under far direr circumstances."

"Yes, yes, Severus, you were a gifted young wizard. How could I have forgotten?" Lupin asked sardonically.

"And you a werewolf." The words rolled off his tongue coldly, an awful complement to Lupin's playfully hurtful tone.

"We all have obstacles to overcome," Remus Lupin said simply. "In my case, I had a talented potions master on my side. But will he be on Harry's?"

"So much I've done for that boy, so much! So much from before the time he was even born, whether in vain or not! And yet, his prestige supercedes mine because I must be the coward, to protect us all, while his cowardice is never taken for anything less than audacity. Potter would be nothing without me, and this he still knows not. Need I remind you, his mother may not have been nothing without me. I do recall you had a certain fondness for her–"

"Do not mock my emotions, you voracious hypocrite! At least I was man enough to pledge any sort of allegiance to the men I'd grown to consider brothers, and the woman one had considered his lover. You pledged nothing to them, especially her, until you realized that your own vices could have been exposed." The mild Lupin had finally revealed his heated side. It was still anything but anger.

"Do not speak of which you do not know, Remus."

"Oh, Severus, don't think I never knew of your boyhood crush. Your manhood crush, as well. How _adorable_. The one you'd taken for granted and never acted upon because you were, in fact, a coward. I suppose you could have had her for a reason I know not other than your talent in potions."

"But of course. I am a miserable old man and have been since the age of twelve," Snape said sarcastically. "Do not pretend as though you have forgotten what I did for that family."

"I have not."

"Then this has been settled."

"Settled? You haven't settled anything but a pointless argument you had not even intended. If you do not support the boy–"

"Honestly, Remus, he's a man by now," Snape spat bitterly.

"If you do not support the boy," Lupin paused indignantly. "I'll have to kill you."

"You could never, even if you had it in you to try. Which I doubt severely."

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He caught her in the corridor. "What's this? Not even a 'was it good for you too?' Are you avoiding me, Granger?" Draco asked playfully.

Hermione ignored him and continued walking, but he cleverly pinned her up against the wall. "Malfoy, if you'd excuse me–" she attempted passing him.

"Oh, come on, stop being a prude. Don't pretend you haven't been thinking of the old chap all day."

She attempted brushing off his comments once more. "Really, I need to get through," she sighed, exasperated.

"Embarrassed of your performance?" Draco chided. It was then that she knew he'd heard about Ron's rant. Whether anyone had told him or he was just a skilled legilimens _(of course he was)_, he felt no qualms about taunting her for it simply because he knew. He was like a little boy with a brand new secret.

He _was _a little boy with a brand new secret.

"This is all a game to you, isn't it?" Hermione snapped. "A joke. Malfoy, you just don't give a damn about anything. Everything's a game," She repeated.

Her comment stung, but he would never let her know it. "What's with the irritation, Granger? Weasel still not pleasing you?"

"Oh, you..." Hermione aimed her fists at his chest but he caught them before impact and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. "Ron's gone missing. He could be dead now and it's all my fault."

He said nothing as she cried into his arms despite his racing thoughts. How she could care this much for a man whom she was so ready to leave just hours ago was beyond him. He stroked her hair lightly while attempting to discern a logic to it all, and she continued to weep for her best friend and lover who would never have held her the way Draco did.

She didn't know why she was crying in the arms of Draco Malfoy. But then again, she didn't know quite a few things lately.

Draco, his nose high in the musty air and eyes concentrated fervently on a distant idea, sensed the brisk movement of someone winding the corner directly in front of them and nudged Hermione gently. "Lupin's coming," said he, cooly suggesting she regain her composure before discovered by a man who had been well known to have had a rather beastly temperament, so to speak. She sighed lightly as he released her from his safe embrace just in time for an encounter with her former favoured professor-now-peer.

His low, weary voice rumbled almost immediately. "I assume you are aware of the dire circumstances before you this eve, Hermione." Remus Lupin completely ignored Malfoy's chilling presence and barely allowed Hermione a quick nod before continuing despondently. "Harry was quite adamant about tracking Ron down, who was evidently out for a contemplative evening stroll," he eyed Hermione questioningly, "and it took most of my efforts and all of the younger Miss Weasley's to restrain him and impound in his fragile conscience any idea of what sort of danger would await him–and more importantly, in his mind, of course, the welfare of the Order–should he go after his best mate. I hope you understand, Hermione."

There was a long silence in which Lupin considered how to phrase his next request. But Hermione had already organized her own thoughts. "Remus," she mustered, bright, glazed eyes gleaming at him. "I'm ready. I'll go." She stared undauntedly at her mentor.

"I'm afraid that would only make matters worse, dear, as your current emotional state would only–"

"Only help! Don't you see? I'm driven by my affections! Don't you remember any of what Dumbledore preached?" She was nearly shouting now, and for no apparent reason. "This was my fault, and therefore, I alone am obliged to rectify the situation at hand. And not just by duty," she nearly snarled, "But by the love that Dumbledore so esteemed and you take for granted!" Hermione released a loud, screaming sob, causing Draco to cringe–his face contorting wickedly–for a reason unknown to him. "I can't go on without him, no matter what our petty altercations would suggest!" She glared coldly at Draco.

"I'm deeply sorry, Hermione, but your rather hasty offer is simply out of the question. As I have been entrusted with ensuring your well-being–"

"Ron _is _my well-being!"

"–As I have been entrusted with ensuring your well-being," Lupin continued, slightly irritated, "and that of the Order of the Phoenix, this argument is not only absurd and illogical, especially coming from you, Hermione, but its resolve also non-negotiable. I regret to inform you that though entirely welcome, our correspondence was not my intent this dreadful night. Draco." The fair man nodded his head in the direction of the silver-white-haired young wizard, finally acknowledging the fact that he stood a mere two feet before him and had been doing so for the duration of his and Hermione's brief spat. "I believe you may have the chance to prove your true worth tonight–the chance for which you so passionately protested."

"Him! You're going to send _him _after Ron? You have got to be kidding! The man hates Ron with the deepest, most sincere–" Hermione was cut off, nearly wailing, clutching the robes of her mentor.

"All the more reason for him to be on his toes about doing his job efficiently to impress the Aurors. Don't you understand, Hermione? Without any respectability from our side, Draco is more of a burden than an asset. Allow for him to be the hero. He is a perfectly able, if not immensely talented wizard who, I assure you, with his wit and cunning, will not fail." Lupin's gaze turned again to rest sternly on Draco.

"I will not," he affirmed cooly. "A Malfoy never–" He cut himself off just in time, deciding on a simple repetition of his previous intent. "No, sir, I shall not fail."

Hermione staggered backwards. "B-but..." She stammered, and Lupin gave her a genuinely sympathetic glance.

"I'm truly sorry, Hermione, that it had to be this way. I want you to know that I understand, and, in the same situation, would feel the same way," he said before whisking Draco Malfoy, her fiance's arch-nemesis, around a corner to do just the opposite of what their rivalry would have required–to save him. "Fancy a word, Draco?" He asked quizzically, as soon as he was sure that a broken Hermione was no longer in an earshot.

Malfoy did not wait for an explanation. "Is it true that Weasley was off for a stroll?" he snorted. "I mean, I always assumed him to be a blubbering fool, but even fools can maintain some sort of _common sense_. Did it ever occur to his thick, redheaded skull that he might be a prime target of the Dark Lord? That maybe, you know, an unattended midnight promenade might not be the ripest of ideas?"

"That's enough, Draco. There's no use in blabbering on about what's already in the past," Lupin scolded with an air of austerity. He turned to face the man _(He was a man now, right? Certainly well past the age... just as Harry was...)_ and put a strong hand on his shoulder, staring into those cold grey eyes. "Severus returned a quarter hour ago with knowledge of Ronald's whereabouts. The location with which he returned was not entirely... promising. No, not promising at all. But I dare say, a more pressing reason for your use in this effort exists; I assure you, Draco. You see, upon your leaving of the Malfoy Manor, your father's Death Eater kin commandeered it for their own employment. He was quite upset with the news of your conversion."

"That's the understatement of the century," Draco drawled, rolling his eyes. "It's utterly surprising the man hasn't killed himself yet." Draco saw Lupin look down awkwardly at these words. He never cared much for subtleties, but, nevertheless, he felt he'd gone a step too far in offering such a commentary. Too much, too soon, he assumed. Clearly, Remus Lupin would not, as he should have predicted, serve as a staunch confidant. No, not in the least. The ways of the Order were rather foreign to him; as a Malfoy, he'd always operated alone. As a pawn of the Dark Lord, he'd been fervently instructed in the arts of secrecy and isolation. Thus, the concept of reclusiveness was woven in his very upbringing. It was an intrinsic trait. Perhaps what separated the members of the Order and those of the Death Eaters other than their respectable intents was the simple war of traits–cats versus dogs and whatnot. The Order worked in pairs–packs, mind you–and maintained that cooperation would be their portkey to success, to pardon a pun. It was strange and awkward, but Draco could not deny his equally strange desire for an inclusion in such a bond. And not because he was going soft, Merlin no! It was merely logical. It was what he needed most right now to gain prestige in his current state. Or so he convinced himself. But he would save Lupin for later.

"Ah, yes, surprising indeed. Not so much so as the fact that they knew immediately of your recent change of heart." The mild man paused indignantly and gave Draco a reproachful stare. "That was foolish, Draco."

This time, Draco was the one staring gauchely downward. He frantically threw around words in a low mumble, mustering all the pride he could assume. "Er.. well, yes, but..." Merlin, he hated being humiliated like that, and especially by a werewolf, of all things. But ah, blood was blood. _Get a hold of yourself, old chap. Blood is blood, blood is blood, blood is--_Of course he'd told his mother in a fit of rage. He was a true Slytherin. "It weakened Death Eater morale greatly."

"Yes, yes, have what you will. But to the matter at hand: they are holding the Weasley boy captive in your very own house. It was clearly designed as a trap for Mr Potter, and there is a very good possibility that it now acts as a trap for you too. So of course the wards have been altered, but we assumed you would know the best way of avoiding them, considering that the only other able member of your lineage is, er... indisposed, for lack of a better term." Draco snorted. "Of course, you will not be able to apparate between houses, as various security measures have been taken." He paused briefly. "Here, I..." Lupin fumbled about in his robe pockets and shoved two items into Draco's palms. "A portkey back, in four hours," Draco looked idly at a minuscule sculpture of a house elf. _Typical_. "And a last resort," Lupin breathed, motioning toward the second item he gave the youngest Malfoy that looked a bit like one of those muggle rubber super balls, only, it appeared to have been hexed and was glowing brightly against the dark walls of the burrow. Before Draco could ask for a further explanation, Lupin patted his back, thus sending him on his way.

_Fuck_. No apparation meant only one thing. And he hadn't used his broom since his quidditch days during his seventh year. He supposed it had to do with pride, in that the last game he would ever lose to Harry Potter would be his last game he would ever play. And it was a pity, too, for he was an excellent flier. Perhaps not as gorgeous as Potter was in the air, fearlessly defying all laws of gravity–even those that existed for wizards (muggles had gotten gravity positively wrong... it was disgraceful)–diving lower, turning sharper, taking more drastic risks, which, more often than not, did have their consequences; but Draco was a dignified broom-wielder, and had an abundance of talent his father took largely for granted. But what did he care for his father's opinion now, when he had so defied him in a matter of far greater importance than a stupid flying game? Oh, yes, this was _much, much _more important, and even that was an understatement of an understatement of an understatement. He kicked at the stone path on which he trod in frustration. He would have to apparate at least to Diagon Alley to pick up a quality broom. It was dangerous these days to venture there alone, especially as a recently turned Order member. Wizards had their own ulterior motives, and those who were not excessively paranoid were giving their fellow wizards reason to be. Though Voldemort's followers could strike at any moment, what an insult it would have been to ride one of Potter's infamous hand-me-downs. Thus, with a mere thought, he was in front of the Quality Quidditch Supplies store.

It was darker than it had been the last time he'd been, which was a considerable while ago, he concluded. It was darker, just like every other Merlin-forsaken shoppe in this town, and, in fact, all of London for that matter. People were not merely on their toes–they were on their toes _fleeing _from anticipated battle. But a Malfoy, no matter whose side of it, would never step down from a challenge. He could never flee like those insufferable cowards–it wasn't even an option. Not even as an Auror. (Or, rather, soon-to-be Auror... evidently, one had to be trained for that sort of thing) Yes, he was a blood-traitor now _(oh, the disgrace)_, but he was not the coward he'd once been, succumbing to the Dark Lord's every whim, even as a child. He was naive then, but now he knew better. Oh, far better. But to be a true Auror, could one even question one's beliefs and stances on the war? If not, he would have some time before coming to terms with his Order membership, as would the incumbent members. They were intelligent people. They _had _to question. Didn't they?

Dust engulfed the remaining brooms and he ran his long fingers lazily over their handles. _Comet Two-Sixty, Comet Two-Ninety (Oh, just repulsive), Cleansweep Fourteen (Blegh), Nimbus 5000 (Are they that advanced already? Must be some competition with the–oh, yes), Firebolt–_

"Sir, may I help you?" Draco nearly jumped, but managed to mask his surprise at the sight of the stout, mousy man in ratty robes with tiny spectacles and a beard to the floor before him.

"I do believe so. What's the most expensive broom you've got?"

"Er, well, yes," Draco's comment garnered a suspicious look. "Right this way," the chubby man squeaked, leading Draco past shelves and shelves of brooms to a back room. "I'll tell you, it's the newest, most advanced thing we've got. From the makers of the Firebolt, although, they haven't officially released it. But I guess with times like these, good surprises are better than... oh, well, good surprises are always welcomeI suppose, always have been, no? Ah, yes, here we are." The man waddled over and pushed all of his weight, which was probably a considerable amount, into opening a giant cabinet, but failed miserably until Draco silently recounted the featherweight charm out of sheer pity. For Merlin's sake, the man deserved some shred of dignity. Of course, he donned a disgusted grimace when the man announced that he was still very much in his prime as the door flung open. "The Thunderbolt One. First in its class. Very new, very chic, _very _expensive." The man eyed Draco questioningly.

"Yes, yes, just give it over," Draco sighed, jaded, and handed the pudgy clerk a grand bag of galleons. He'd have to be more careful in the future, though, for there was no telling when Narcissa would close the Malfoy account to him. Of course, if she were to die... "Keep the change," Draco instructed, taking the Thunderbolt under his robed arm and leaving the salesman in awe, staring dumbly at his vast, newfound fortune.

He'd mounted the broom almost immediately upon leaving the shoppe. It felt a bit heavy toward the tail, but it was certainly as the clerk had described–new, chic, and very advanced. It felt lovely to be soaring about the sky of London. So lovely, in fact, that he felt as though he should test to see how rusty his skill had become. Probably not all that much, considering he was a Malf–

A shout of "BLOODY MERLIN'S GHOST!" followed a shrill shriek as he flipped gallantly through the air, startling him so that he was sent tumbling into a particularly high oak. There was a loud thud on the ground below him, and he looked down from the branch from which he hung by one arm, almost effortlessly, at the head and upper chest of Hermione Granger. She did look particularly attractive all frazzled and– What in the name of Merlin was Hermione Granger doing on the back of his broomstick?

"Aghh!" Draco grunted, dropping to the soil to land graciously on his feet. Hermione rolled her eyes, anticipating a quelled attack, but Draco merely stared down at her. But of course. She'd stolen Potter's invisibility cloak. After a long, inquisitive silence, Draco spoke scathingly. "What the bloody fuck do you think you're doing? You could have gotten us both killed!" He thought for a moment. "Although I am sure that my death was your intent." At this, Hermione merely gritted her teeth. "Here," Draco said, finally, offering her his roughened hand. She accepted it hesitantly and he subsequently hoisted her upwards, sending the invisibility cloak falling in a crumpled mess at her feet. She _did _look stunning in the moonlight; Funny he hadn't noticed this when he could have easily shagged her senseless at school without much recompense from Pothead or the Weasel. He eyed a glistening engagement band on the finger of an exposed hand. _Probably bought it cheap_. "I suppose I'll have to escort you back now," he managed, clearly annoyed.

Her lower lip formed a childish pout. "I'll not go." She rested her hands on her hips. "We've already made it this far, after all."

As intolerable a woman as she could be, this was true. They were nearly at his family's manor, and it would be a pain in the arse to take her to the Burrow and then fly all the way back. And then, of course, stupefying her would be an easy answer, but despite her petite frame, after a few miles, toting around a lifeless woman would be a hassle. But then again, hauling her back kicking and screaming would be utter hell. No, the know-it-all Granger had exercised utter logic once more. He supposed he could just leave her outside the gates until he could get on with rescuing her pathetic excuse for a fiancé. "Alright," Draco sighed through gnashed teeth. He hated this. "C'mon." He motioned to his new broom, which was still positioned lazily in the tree they had previously encountered. _"Accio broom!" _he bellowed, noticing her sigh slightly at his indolent expertise in such a simple enchantment. "Well, what are you waiting for? Now or never, Granger," he insisted, barely allowing her time to mount the broom behind him before he flew at full speed into the night sky. She shook violently–probably had never ridden a broom in her life. _How burdensome_. "Oh, for Chrissake, grab onto me," he nearly yelled into the London sky, and to his surprise, she obliged almost immediately, although grudgingly enough. Before long, they were diving to the ground just outside the Malfoy estate. Needless to say, he landed skillfully. "Off," he commanded. But, of course, she did not budge even slightly.

"This is nowhere near your mansion," Hermione contended.

"Oh, right. _You're _the receptive one." He hoped to Merlin she would pick up on his sarcasm, because he was not about to let her get away with such a dim-witted comment. "Need I spell this out for you? We are near the gates. I'll leave you here, as you were instructed by Lupin to stay behind. If you do not stay, which, I suppose you will not, I'll stupefy you here. You have no idea the dangers that await you. It was foolish to come along, and not just for the fact that you nearly killed us back in that oak tree."

"It's my duty," she whispered to him angrily. "You can't deny this to me! Especially after what I've done for you!"

He grabbed her robes and pulled her to him forcefully as he had done once before. "You listen to me." Hermione stared at him in fear and resent. "You do not understand the ways of the dark lord and his followers. Nor should anyone ever hold a mud–" he stopped himself again just in time. "_Muggle-born_ to those expectations," he snorted bitterly. "To them, you are worse than the dirt between their toes, only, far more amusing to torture and kill. Not that I would have had any qualms about that," he thought for a moment and then decided to add a bitter, "in the past," before continuing with his condescending lecture. "And of course, you would deserve it entirely if you were to so much as set foot in that mansion. You will not go. You do not understand the danger." He released her, and, although she was clearly shaken, she maintained a sense of impassioned anger.

"I put not only my reputation, but my _life _on the line for you, and you cannot grant me the satisfaction of rescuing the man I love. _Typical_. I should have expected this from you, Malfoy," she spat with disgust. She was considering stupefying _him_, but then decided against it, as that could inhibit the mission further.

"Did you not hear a word I said? Weren't you supposed to be the bright one of the bunch? I wouldn't be granting you any satisfaction! I would be granting you your _death certificate_, and I would gladly oblige, but I'm not sure _that _would win me points with your Potter-arse-kissing friends."

"It's all about you! Always has been! You cannot even consider the emotions of another–"

"Oh, cut the crap."

"Witch or wizard, and that makes you _exactly _the type that You-Know-Who would want by his side!"

"Shut up!"

"Everyone assumes that you only turned to our side to save your sorry little arse from the Dark Lord's wrath, and now I'm starting to bel–"

Draco once again grasped her robes in his hands and pulled her towards him violently, but this time, silenced her by shoving his own mouth over hers. "Mmnngh..." She groaned for a few seconds before gathering the strength to push him away, and he could have sworn she enjoyed it.

"W-w-why," she stuttered, "in the name of Merlin would you _do _such a thing, you insufferable prat?"

"To shut you the _hell _up, that's why," he retorted viciously, and although he thought he was not lying, something else was asking him _why, _and it was not Hermione Granger. Granted, he'd never kissed a mudblood–_muggle-born, Draco, muggle-born–_before, and although that hardly qualified as one, her lips were so soft..."You, of all people, should know to think before you speak. Take back what you said."

"I... I..."

"Take it back!"

Hermione sighed deeply. She'd meant what she said, but perhaps she'd exaggerated a bit. Of course she'd been moved by his inquisition. Of course she knew he did, in fact, have the capacity for certain virtues, but she just couldn't help but think, especially in these situations, that it was all a cover-up. "I suppose all that I said was not entirely true. Really, Malfoy, are you happy now?"

He showed no sign of recognition, but made a hasty decision. "Well, c'mon then, but if you're coming, you are to do everything I say without questioning."

Hermione Granger nodded her head hopefully in his direction, and he knew that she was praying to the gods he could not pick up on her excitement.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ron had been just about as happy to see Hermione as he was to see Draco, which, needless to say, was not all that much, and it was probably due to the very fact that she was with Draco in the first place.

Draco had watched his malcontent from afar–she nearly threw herself at him (oh that lucky bastard) and he barely acknowledged her embrace, simply wanting to know why the "bloody fuck" _"he"_ was there, and with her, to which Draco himself responded with an explanation of their trip's mishaps, and he pointed out snidely that it could have been solely him to come to her fiance's aid (oh, sweet Merlin, had he likened Weasley to a damsel in distress?), and that he should be far more than grateful. Needless to say, that helped matters very little, and he dropped them off as quickly as possible at the nearest town so that they could apparate most of the rest of the way (what did he care if they walked a few miles?) just to be rid of them. Were they even aware of the potential harm they faced at his manor? They were acting like schoolchildren playing a game of hide-and-seek that had gone irrevocably awry, rather than mature adults participating in a bloody _rescue mission._ It was a wonder his mother's own house elves hadn't spotted them–it'd taken nearly an hour to conjure the counterjinxes to the dark magic that bound Ron over the equivalent of a flaming bed of thorns. Death Eaters were efficient, just not efficient enough. But the soon-to-be Weasley couple failed to even consider for a moment the magical skills of their enemies. Nevertheless, he felt for Hermione, he truly did, and that frightened him. He assured himself, however, that it was simply a manly protective instinct–after all, she was being emotionally violated by the man to whom she'd given her heart, and was that not equally as horrendous a crime as a slap to the face?

And damn him, for taking her for granted. The youngest Weasley boy had the world at his feet–a _pureblooded_, loving family, a friendship to rival that of Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, and an unconventionally, perhaps, but still beautiful woman who was prepared to devote the rest of her life to appeasing his every whim, and all he could do in his jealous pride was cast her aside during a time when all on the "light" side needed to stick together most. But then again, the line between "dark" and "light" always grew hazy at dusk.

And so, that night, she was crying in his arms again, wondering why Draco Malfoy, of all intolerable pricks, was comforting her so, and without as much as a single word.

It started the same way, in fact, with her blaming him for the evening's occurrences, and him making crude remarks about how if she would have just followed the _fucking protocol_, everything would have been alright, and that she was just trying to be some Merlin-forsaken hero, and that she could have that–he didn't care–but only when it was appropriate, and when it didn't put _his _arse on the line, because he couldn't have cared less if she survived this war, but he needed to himself because he'd already risked _so bloody much_.

And she called him a selfish bastard and accused him of having no emotional capacity whatsoever, and because of that, he would never know that she _wasn't _trying to be a hero at all. And she screeched about how she wished he were still a Death Eater because he could never own up to the Auror mentality, and that he could never change from the ruthless muggle-killer he'd always been, again, because he just couldn't _feel,_ and he admonished her for assuming ("When you _assume,_" he'd said, nearly laughing at her rage, "you make an _arse _out of _you-and-me!"_) that just because _he _had no capacity for emotion (he said this mockingly, as well), no other Death Eater could care about anything deeply enough to die for it. And then things got bitterly silent, and then came the tears. What was he supposed to do with that? He couldn't just leave her be like her beloved boyfriend probably would have, because as unpitying as he may have been, he still had _manners._

When she calmed down, she was ready to talk. "I swear, he's not always like this."

Silence.

"He's just overly sensitive, I suppose. Always has been."

Silence.

"I–"

"There's no need to excuse his behaviour to me. For one, there's simply no excuse, and secondly, I've dealt with him long enough to know. Rather unfortunately, as well," Draco elated calmly. He wasn't angry anymore. No, he'd never been all that angry in the first place. More amused than enraged. _Yes, that's it. Amused. _And so, he wanted to tell her, "You know, all your life, you're told not to hit girls," and there he would go again, "and then you start fucking them." And she would probably cringe at that word because she was so fucking prude, and she would condemn his use of foul language, and so he would not opt to use that word again. "And nobody ever tells you that there's a way to hurt a girl other than by hitting her." Not that he'd ever heeded his own potential advice, jumping from woman to woman at whim, rarely staying past dawn. Was he imagining himself sweet-talking Hermione Granger? But of course, he said nothing, and she just cried, and he hated that. He hated the way it proved his father wrong, because they were all human, and he hated the way that he felt knowing he'd caused these tears many a time before with a mere flick of the wrist or tongue, and he hated it because now she would think she could trust him, and he didn't want anyone to think that, especially not this girl crying in his arms right now, because by no means was he trustworthy, and by no means could she hold him to any expectations of secrecy, because by no means could she take that out of him–that cool, slick, badness; that awesome awfulness. No, you could take the Malfoy out of the bad, but you could never take the bad out of the Malfoy. He grinned slyly. He liked the way that sounded, because what he hated most wasn't the regret or the remorse or the nostalgia–it was the fact that another dumb bitch was ruining his brand new robes, and one who, at that, hadn't even given him so much as a hand job. But still, there they were, in his makeshift bedroom, atop his comforter; she crumbled into his chest and he sitting on the back of his calves in order to support both of their weights.

And then she started prodding. And he felt uncomfortable from the second she used his first name. "Draco, I know it wasn't simply the doctrine that made you change your mind about the war," Hermione said softly. Draco said nothing. "Now, I'm no skilled legilimens, but–"

This time he opted to respond, and to do so rudely, at that. He released her and got a good look at her puffy red eyes and lips and nose and remembered how shitty girls looked when they actually cried, not cute or even gorgeous like they did in all of those Merlin-damned Muggle motion pictures. Her face was all screwed up, too, and her hair was frizzy because some of it had gotten wet, either in her mouth or on his robes. She looked like hell.

And who died and made her Minister of Magic, to make her think she could just ask whatever the bloody fuck she wanted just because they were on the same side now? And what in the name of Merlin was compelling him to answer her?

"What makes you think that someone has to be a bloody hero to be right?" She sniffed, and he furrowed his brow as his rhetorical question hung mustily in the air. "Because I'm no hero, Granger. I'm just a logical loser. I'm a leech. I didn't skip over to your side of the war through a field of daisies. I still don't know the fucking difference between 'good' and 'evil.' Doesn't mean I don't think I'm right. Because, trust me, I do. And I am. But not because I spent an hour reading some moral code for two-year-olds. I'm not your hero." It seemed like he was reasoning this to himself, excusing his own misfortune. "I did it because it was logical. Logical to save my own sorry arse, because, yes, I am a selfish sonuvabitch. And logical for all the reasons of which you've never thought, but are still somewhere in you, telling you why you should believe those fairy tales that told you not to piss on the toilet seat and that killing is bad and that deep down, way on the inside, everyone's fucking the _same_," he let out a dry sob. _Get a hold of yourself, mate. _"You think Lucius Malfoy ever read his only son any of that shit? Which is, I assure you, what he called it." She was silently sobbing, again. _Oh fuck_. "I'm not your hero. I'll never be your hero." He stared at her dumbly with his cold, grey eyes that occasionally appeared blue when he was happy, which was almost never, come to think of it, and especially not these days. She'd been crying so readily into his arms just minutes ago, but now she tried her hardest not to, and it was pathetic. Utterly _pathetic_. "Oh, come on. Don't act like you're surprised."

She opened her mouth briefly but closed it when she thought she would only cry if she said a word. And so he said, "Oh shit, Granger, don't cry."

This enraged her fully. "I am not surprised, and would never have been, let me assure you, that you are an insufferable _dick_. You're positively right. You're awful. You're terrible, Malfoy, and if I could hate you, I would, but I can't, and I don't know why, because you _still _haven't told me. You still haven't given me this esteemed logic of yours that made you come to me and spill your heart out to the Order, and then fortify your claim with that goddamned horcrux that would have won them alone. It was a flawless plan. So calculated. So precise. And yeah, so it would have won them alone. But not me. So tell me, Draco Malfoy, why I should trust you any longer."

"That's just _it!_ You _shouldn't _trust me! You shouldn't trust me at all, and you shan't have ever trusted me, because that's just _it_, Granger. I'm a terrible person. I've killed men just because of the way they were fucking _born. _And nobody asks to be born. Nobody has a choice to be a pureblood, or a _mudblood_, and, for that matter, somewhere along the line, my ancestry was born of muggles as well. And even if we did–have a choice, that is–it's better to be powerless and pathetic and less worthy than to be nothing at all. And in the end, we all had the same goddamned magic stick, and those same god awful powers. And we were all human and we shed the same tears, bled the same blood." His pale complexion was turning a bright red, and when he thought that he, too, might burst into tears (or rather, shed tears, because Malfoys didn't _burst_ into tears; they _wept,_ and they wept courageously and with dignity), he buried his head in his hands, letting those white-blond strands tumble over his roughened knuckles in such a graceful manner--water over a jagged cliff. He inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, and he knew then that he was okay, and that he wasn't about to let her see him cry.

And then she did something he never would have expected, and never in a million years would have wanted.

She hugged him. And he was caught between a rock and a hard place, because Draco Malfoy didn't _do _hugs, and he certainly didn't do them when he was on the receiving end of the embrace, especially when the one to whom he found himself bound considered it an emotional gesture. Because he was _not _some easily-moved, vulnerable mind in need of a _hug._ And he would never want her to think that, not now, not ever. Not even if that chance came upon which he was forced to face his father...

So he just sort of stayed in his closed, controlled position, and hoped she found it awkward enough hugging the hump the arch of his spine made while he was hunched over to just bloody let _go_, and save him the embarrassment of being hugged by Hermione Granger.

And eventually, she did, and she left him on his bed without so much as a "good night," and she left him _vulnerable_. So, he did what he always did when he felt weak, and that was to throw a decorative statue of a house elf across the room. (What was with these people and statues of house elves? Honestly, they weren't that special. Rather ugly, actually.) It was awful. _Pathetic._ (He wished it had been a real house elf, of course.) It didn't smash into a million pieces like his mother's priceless vase that came between him and a new Firebolt when he was nine, and it didn't crush a hole in the wall like the toy Pensieve he'd originally aimed at his father one Christmas, and it didn't break skin like the back of his father's hand had afterwards. It just made a huge clunking noise, enough to make it sound like some damage had been done, but then fell lackadaisically to the wooden floor to make another pitiful slamming noise. And it wasn't enough, but there was nothing else to throw. So he merely punched in a dresser, and then he actually did sob. But only for a few brief moments. Because Malfoys didn't _sob._

Something changed that night between Hermione and Draco Malfoy. They didn't walk around like they hated each other's guts all the time. And actually, there were a few greetings. And they were relatively _amicable._ When neither Potter nor Weasley was there, of course.

And Hermione felt badly for him. He'd risked everything for something in which he evidently believed so fervently, even if it was a bit too precise for her likings, and all he received in return was loneliness. Not that he'd ever let anyone see–that is, if anyone were actually watching for it. Which, of course, they weren't. Because, in truth, nobody cared that Draco Malfoy had switched sides. He was just another convert, only worse, because nobody liked him in the first place. Hell, the whole house detested the boy (was he a man, now? A man like Harry? Never.) because he was a downright _coward._ And for the most part, everybody who hadn't been at 12 Grimmauld Place that night assumed that he was only doing it because it looked like the Aurors had a pretty fine shot at winning the war now, and he didn't want to end up in Azkaban like his father.

And, truthfully, she often spent sleepless nights in Ron's bed (yes, they'd made up, as always) wondering whether she'd made a drastic mistake, because the apple never fell far from the tree, and Draco Malfoy was his father's son through and through. He was cruel and he was a coward. But she was a hopeless optimist. (Think fifth year S.P.E.W.)

What on earth did he do all day, ignored by an entire household and unable to go elsewhere because of his protection issues?

Of course she found out. She wasn't Harry's and Ron's know-it-all for nothing. She found him in the library, of all places, reading book after book, day after day, not exchanging words with anybody unless it was during a time he chose to leave for a brief moment to get food, and even then it was often a terse grunt or, at best, a "good day." And it seemed as though he never ate much anymore anyway.

So she made a decision. And she talked to Lupin about it and he thought it sounded like a good idea. It took a bit of convincing for Tonks, but with the way Remus drove her wild, Hermione was sure that she was only putting up a fight for the appearance of it all. They were positively adorable, really.

Now all she had to do was convince Draco.

Ha.

He was sitting leisurely on the cramped couch, reading Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_, when she entered the room. She cleared her throat, and he whipped into a more upright position and hid the book behind his back.

"I didn't know you were interested in muggle literature," she said quietly.

He snorted. "I'm not. Don't worry your pretty little bum, Granger. I had porn tucked inside the pockets."

She laughed a little at that. "At least you can admit to your problem. Now all we have left is the twelve-step program to recovery!" And she could have sworn he smiled a little at that, too. "What are you doing tonight, Malfoy?"

"Well," he exhaled, stretching out his arms across the ridge of the sofa, his legs reclining in an equally jaded fashion, "tonight, I have a date with my hand. Tomorrow, it's this same porno magazine." He waved the tattered book in the air. "And, seeing as how I've been so busy as of late, I'm positive I'm booked until at least..." he paused for dramatic effect. _Men. _"Next year."

"So then I take it you wouldn't be interested in a meal out in the real world with Lupin, Tonks and myself?"

"Nope, not in the least," he replied, smiling sourly.

"Good, because we want you to be as miserable as possible."

She looked up at him, expectantly. "Are you serious?" She nodded. "I'm not going, Granger," he growled.

"It's on us. You don't have to lift a finger. You can even come in that," she noted, pointing to the robes he'd probably been wearing for over a week now.

"I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity. And we want your company."

"Well, clearly that's not the reason," he hissed, "so tell me why you want me there, and if it's anything along the lines of a swell surprise party or an Aurors' night out, I'll be assured you wish to poison me. Because everyone knows that Aurors don't actually have fun. Too much world-saving to do, too little time."

She smiled. He was very uncomfortable. "Actually, it wouldn't be an strictly Aurors' night out, considering the fact that _you _are not an auror, and as we well know, Remus is a werewolf. So technically, there would only be two aurors there. And of course we wouldn't be having fun; we'd be stuck with an ex-Death Eater and a werewolf."

"Are you asking me on a _date, _Granger?" He licked his lips after filing out that sarcastic bit. "Oh, you're making me _blush._"

"If I said it was a date, would you come?"

"Hell no! Why would I go out with _Hermione Granger_?"

"Tonks will be there, too!"

"Yeah, because, last time I checked, incest was all the rage."

"Oh." There. There was the flaw in her end of the banter, so she simply stopped. And there was a very awkward silence that lasted a considerable amount of time. She broke the ice, finally. "I just thought–"

"Never mind, Granger, I'm coming. But not because I like you or anything, because trust me, I don't. I just want some real food, and I want it for free. And we're going somewhere with a _lot _of alcohol, and I'm not paying for any of it." She rolled her eyes, but in such a way that he could tell she was more amused than annoyed.

"We're leaving at seven. What are you wearing?"

"Sweats or pyjamas, you pick. One of those, or both, or my birthday suit, that is."

"How about a real suit?"

"Sweats it is!"

"You are intolerable, Malfoy."

"Yeah, and that's why you _begged_ me to come along." He flashed her a wicked grin and it quelled her first thought to yell at him for being so difficult, and scream about how she was only doing it for his benefit in the first place and how she didn't want to do this at all. Because he really did have a nice smile.

And dinner went fairly well, as a matter of fact. They'd gone to a secluded pub in downtown London, as not to draw much attention to themselves. These were dangerous times, and such a pleasure-outing was risky. Nevertheless, she could admit that she actually enjoyed his company. And she hoped Remus and Tonks had as well, or at least had been too engrossed in their own conversation to notice his boisterously drunken snipes at the taboo of it all, and especially their quirky relationship.

At first, of course, he was very quiet and withdrawn. It took Hermione's prodding to bring him into conversation, and soon they were disclosing tactics and whatnot, and as the booze flowed, the conversation got lighter, and Tonks turned her hair bright orange and Malfoy thought that was the funniest thing he'd seen in his life and nearly fell out of the booth they shared in fits of laughter.

And of course he'd donned a new robe for the occasion. He was such a woman, sometimes. Always had to look perfect. It made her feel awful because she paid no attention to her appearance these days, and especially not with old friends like Lupin and Tonks. She hadn't even bothered to fix her hair up in a bun or something, and she was having yet another bad hair day, which probably spawned from a week or two or a hundred of the same situations. And she never wore makeup, because it simply wasn't important. Even if she hadn't been dating Ron, she wouldn't have worn it, because what good was makeup in Auror training? There were more important things in life than being the whore to which Draco Malfoy was so accustomed–Pansy Parkinson, maybe, and maybe the poor girl's mother, or cousin, or–

Oh, this was just making her depressed.

But he sure wasn't. He'd commandeered the entire conversation and was now recounting stories of his home life, like that time he'd tied up his Aunt Bellatrix when she told his father he got in past curfew one night. Tonks got a hearty laugh out of that–there was a hatred they both shared, other than one for Draco himself. But that was dark. And they didn't want to think about that right then.

And when he called Lupin a cradle snatcher, Hermione nearly died, but Tonks was in a good enough mood to insist that she was, in fact, the lion tamer, and then they joked about who was the beast in bed and Hermione insisted they stop, and Malfoy laughed hysterically at that partially because she was so adorable and partially because he was on his sixth beer.

So, yeah. It was a good night. Gave them something to think about every few seconds between separate worries about the war. And she wouldn't have minded doing it again. Oh, no, she certainly wouldn't have.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Wow. Over 2000 hits. So many alerts. I really do love you guys. I feel like I don't deserve this, as I don't really have that great of confidence in my writing, but I still thank you very much. A grand boost to the ol' ego, if you know what I mean. Hopefully I won't disappoint here, either. This is where it gets juicy. You have been forewarned.

**Disclaimer: **I own Harry Potter.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx **

Draco slammed his book shut. This time it was porn by the author Graham Greene. "Well, are you just going to sit there pretending to read about quantum physics or are you going to actually try to talk to me?"

"I am not pretending," she huffed, pulling herself and her book into a more upright position on the sofa.

"Then tell me why light appears red when it refracts out of a black hole," he propositioned cooly, now reclining in that same shag-me position, legs spread wide–causing noticeable creases in his pants–and arms stretched across the back ridge of the chair.

"Ha! Trick question! Light doesn't refract from black holes." Granger seemed pleased enough with herself. As always.

"Well, for one, what do you think the light around the damned vacuum is doing? And secondly, didn't they ever teach you that black holes were just forms of Grindelwald's dark mark?"

She swallowed hard. "Guess I'm a bit rusty on my wizard history, then."

"Well, for Merlin's sake, we're in a library. Weren't you the resourceful one of your little golden trio? I'm sure as hell not about to elaborate on why his dark marks still haven't all faded out, or how he actually conjured them in the first place, or–"

"Okay, you've caught my attention," she sighed. He clucked his tongue and pointed to the stacks of books surrounding them. He could be so cocky sometimes.

She rolled her eyes and pretended again to be preoccupied with the textbook. "I suppose I'm just too interested in the subject of," she squinted hard, "ay-gine-vectors."

He snorted, and then laughed mockingly. "Eigenvectors?" More subtle laughter. "You're sort of cute, you know that?" This caught her attention. "For Weasley's girl, I mean."

And she really was. He assumed she'd come to accompany him because she thought he was lonely, and he'd be her next "project." Which wasn't entirely true (well, the lonely part, at least), and he had gained a new perspective of this intolerable know-it-all, but she was quite presumptuous in such a feat. He didn't need to be saved. And he sure as hell didn't need to play teacher in their little game of house. _(Maybe _sex _teacher–oh, god, gross... get a hold of yourself, man! That's crude.)_ (But she _was _awfully adorable, sitting there with her hair pulled tightly back and her legs crossed off to the side of the couch, in an oversized robe that probably belonged to Ron.)

"Weasley's girl?" she pouted. "I am hardly his _property_, you sexist pig!"

He snickered again. Merlin, she _was _cute. "Now, now, Hermione." Ah, her first name rolled off his tongue much more readily than he'd expected. "Don't you have something to attend to in the kitchen?"

She slapped him playfully. "No more than what you have to attend to for the Order."

"Oh." She'd clearly hit a soft spot there, and, surprisingly enough, it was completely unintentional.

A very awkward silence ensued. Well, for her, at least. He was utterly content with not speaking to her as he'd done for the past half hour, and then three years before that. But her philanthropic tendencies would never fail to infringe upon his reclusive ones. So his blissful silence never really lasted all that long. _Tireless shrew._

"I... I'm so sorry." Her eyes were wide with repentance. "I... er... if it's any consolation, we would put you in for more missions, because you are an extremely talented wizard, but it's just for your protection, you see, because if we were to–" she was quite obviously rambling, as her cheeks began to flush a lovely rose color and her word-per-minute quota quickened.

"Yeah, I know, Granger. Quit bumbling on and on. I'm not an idiot." He stretched. "Doesn't mean I can't be bitter about it."

There was another very awkward pause.

"If you're interested, I could see about on-site auror training. I mean, a fair deal of it is done in studying, after all, and I'm sure–"

"Don't sweat it, Granger."

"Well, you do want to become an Auror, right? You should want to, after all, and you got the highest N.E.W.T.s required."

"Yes, I did, but no, I don't."

"Then what will you do after the war's over?" she asked him dubiously. Christ, she was so innocent.

"Assuming I make it out _alive_, a little issue of which you've been a bit more than brash to dismiss, I'd like to sit on my pretty little arse and live off my inheritance." He paused. "Maybe do some _flying_." It was all merely a flourish of rhetoric.

"You can't be serious," she exhaled, looking very solemn.

"No, I believe my auntie killed that dickwad. I'm Draco." Ha, pun.

"That's not funny."

"Eh, you win some, you lose some."

Silence.

"Well you ought to have some sort of skill, just in case. And it wouldn't hurt you to learn a little Auror defence." She paused thoughtfully. "In fact, it would benefit the Order as well. And then perhaps you wouldn't have to waste your days in this old place."

"Hey, I like it here."

"Even with me?"

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves, shall we?" She looked at him expectantly, and so he pretended to have the most _intriguing _epiphany. "My dear lord, Granger!" he sang. "Your words have never been truer! It just hit me! I know what I'll do with my post-war life!"

She wasn't sure whether or not he was being facetious again, so she simply raised an eyebrow.

"I'll write _pornography!_" He waved his book in the air again, and broke into a fit of howling laughter. She chuckled herself, but would never let him see it.

"Give me that," she chided, pulling the book from his flailing hands. And, as he was going off reciting his favorite wizard porn excerpts, she flipped through it rather intently. She heard something about a "soft thigh" and "luscious pink lips" before interrupting him with her own inquiry she'd contrived from skimming the pages. "So, you're interested in religious analyses?"

And thus the secret conversations between Draco Malfoy, the convert, and Hermione Granger, the hero, began. There were days when Hermione would find it more entertaining to discuss Ministry politics with Malfoy than to have tea with Ginny or Harry. Nevertheless, Ron was never second best... unless they were angry with each other, that is. And, of course, Draco was there every day because he simply had nothing else to do. Although he'd declined her offer of the Auror Training books, Hermione had hassled McGonagall into lending her a few and brought them to him, so it gave him extra reason to stay cooped up in the stuffy, mold-infested Weasley library, and not, say, his equally stuffy, mold-infested bedroom, which had been Percy's. (Mr and Mrs Weasley had been a bit apprehensive about that, but eventually conceded, and pretty much had stayed out of his way since then. Whether they were afraid of or disgusted by him, he knew not, but he was glad nonetheless because they could be absolute pains in his arse.) And in truth, despite how annoying she could sometimes _(Ha! More like _always) be, he enjoyed her company, and actually looked forward to it. He wondered if her closest friends were concerned at all about her whereabouts during the day and even night as her visits became more and more frequent.

But that was the least of his worries, because one day, something changed completely between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. Of course, the change before then had been gradual–they'd become more open-minded, more apt to dismiss previous grudges, or at least abler simply (or not so simply) to forget if not forgive. But that day, that oddly warm February morning, the change was so drastic that nothing, not even the memories of name-calling and curse-throwing, would be the same.

Because that was the day he kissed her for real.

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, of course. It's not like _Draco Malfoy_ spent his hours planning to get into some bushy-haired girl's pants, because there was no use in planning when he could so readily have whatever he so desired from any girl. (But from Hermione Granger? Wasn't she a bit different from "any girl?") Planning made it stale and took the excitement out of it. So it was spontaneous.

She'd insisted on quizzing him on Auror tactics and code of ethics, because she insisted that he rid himself of all Death Eater mentality, because it was "disgusting" and "wrong." And so, he'd told her that she was naive and arrogant, and that if she looked hard enough, she'd find striking similarities between the battling forces. Of course, she denied this vehemently, much to his dismay, because he didn't want to listen to her drone on about nationalism and whatnot, and he supposed he wanted to spare her the embarrassment of seeming just so... _unknowledgeable _and sheltered. So he made a futile attempt to convince her, firstly, to shut her bloody mouth, and secondly, that his kind (well, the kind he'd betrayed) was, in fact, capable of sympathy and compassion--just not for those they viewed as inferior. And he tried to explain to her that it wasn't racism, because they'd justified their viewpoints by holding that their so-called "mudbloods" were sub-human, and you couldn't have racism if the victims were of a completely different species. He compared it to the Euro-African-American slave trade of the late second millennium, but, of course, she countered that it didn't make it any less wrong.

And he agreed. He truly did. And he told her that was one of his main reasons for turning over, and that it meant a great deal to him that she, and everyone else, for that matter, knew that. And, in the end, he consented to her little quizzes simply to get her off his back. Because she could be such a _pain. _(She'd make a great addition to the Weasley family, oh yes.) Didn't mean he would actually _try _to answer correctly.

But, just like how he showed up for dinner in nice robes after promising sweats, he did try, and he did more than considerably well. His answers were excellent, actually. Hermione was quite impressed, and complimented him on his dedication to his studies, to which he contended that he'd never studied at all... which, of course, was a blatant and immature lie.

He did get a few answers slightly off (to her likings, of course; he insisted they were fine and refused to rectify any error she might criticize), and so, she took it upon herself to open to the pages that explained them with the correct terminology, and they were sitting awfully close when she turned her head to check his progress... "Draco," she'd cooed, and then he looked up and raised an eyebrow before they each held their end of a mini staring-contest. And then he'd started laughing, and snorting (ugh, that _obnoxious, _pretentious snort of his) as usual, and when she asked why, he leaned over and wiped a smudge of mascara off her cheek (so, she'd been experimenting, eh?), and then he stopped laughing and simply smiled knowingly as he brushed her hair out of her face and held the back of her head in his hand, pulling her into his kiss. At first, it'd been just him trying to find his way into her pursed lips, but then she'd begun to kiss back, and he quickened the pace with his tongue in her mouth before pulling his lips away and gasping for air. And then she gave him an inquisitive stare before blinking her eyes in surprise and awe. Her hands jerked up a bit as she looked around guiltily again, then stood up, and walked out of the room, flustered.

It wasn't anything special, or even passionate. It was just a regular old snog, but it had the most irregular effect on the course of their apparently growing friendship. Because if she came back to the library, nothing would be the same. But if she didn't, well, then... still, nothing would be the same, only he'd be considerably lonelier. And that was not something he wanted to be, no matter how much he'd like to deny it. But he sure as hell wouldn't have taken that back if he could have, because one thing Malfoys did not do, even Malfoy _traitors_, was to regret. Regret was for the weak.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_There was no way he'd be able to reach the man at the school, or any office, for that matter. No, he was the highest of the high-profile suspects now, and any public sighting could mean Azkaban. Or worse yet, he'd be forced to protect himself against the ruthless enemy and further soil his criminal record. And that was just the thing for which he needed to see Albus Dumbledore; he'd realized his irreconcilable mistake and was intent on rectifying his own morale, if not the situation itself. _

_And he was nearly positive his irreconcilable mistake was just that–irreconcilable. Not in the conventional manner, at least; he now owed it to them, and his conscience, to devote himself fully to the Order of the Phoenix. Most of all, though, he owed it to Lily. And he supposed Lily's only son._

_James was another story._

_But, nevertheless, he was on a mission to find the sorry old man. And if the school wasn't about to welcome him with open arms, he would find another way. He remembered where they'd been when he overheard the prophecy. So he thought he'd give it a fair shot, and he chose the day upon which the man's thoughts were most open to ... _suggestion_... to put his legilimency skills lightly, and he made all the necessary preparations and was off, ready to renounce his faith and put his trust in the only man who ever showed compassion for him, and all in the name of the only woman to do the same._

_And he was there, in fact, perhaps waiting for him with a knowing anticipation, perhaps with hatred, or perhaps with an intrinsic hope. Because Dumbledore was always a hopeless optimist._

_He nodded his head with an air of solemnity. "Severus." It was simple as that, and then he began leading him around the corner and up that creaky, moldy stairwell that still haunted his dreams, and then into that stuffy office he'd entered just a few months too late._

_There was no light conversation so characteristic of the old wizard; no talk of sweets or socks. In fact, Dumbledore spoke not. He never would have given him the chance, anyhow, because he had something to say, and he had to say it right then before the ambition left him an even sorrier man forever. Because with the remorse he felt then, he would have rather been dead. So he had nothing to lose. And that was the very concept with which he began._

"_I am not here with you because I have something to lose, for I have nothing in my worldly possessions worth losing other than anything I've already lost. But I do have something to gain, sir, and while it may not be the thing which I so desire, it is the thing with the power to keep me alive, for I will surely die without it, by my own hand or otherwise. Tonight I will not argue with you, and I will do anything you ask of me, because this is not a conference; this is a plea. Yes, Albus, I am here to beg of you something which you cannot grant me, but something I must earn, and I will beg, however undignified begging may be, because I believe I must; I believe I am obliged to do so because I am compelled by something I so disdain–the verbal admission of love. And of all the hopeless lovers in the world, I knew that only you could understand my plight. And I want you to know that you saved me, and I repaid you only by disgracing and dishonouring your name, and for that, I am so deeply sorry, and I would never expect your forgiveness, for I doubt that, in the same situation, I would ever give my own._

"_But my sorrow runs deeper for that of which I shall inform you tonight–that of my deepest, greatest regret. You see, in a man's life, as I'm sure you well know, choices cannot be remade, damage cannot be undone, but may be dwelled upon until the breaking point of his own mind. I fear my mind will soon be my second frail possession to break. And then what? Then am I still a man? Have I ever been? Men take risks in their passions. I ignored mine and, by doing so, extinguished the source of them. And there's only one thing now, Albus, that I think I can do, and by no means will it ensure the restoration of my manhood, or any measure of forgiveness, but by God," he inhaled sharply, as if on the brink of tears. The white-haired wizard simply sat listening to him, and all he could hope was that somehow, he could understand, or at least sympathize._

"_He's going to kill her, Albus. He's going to kill her and I do not believe there is anything I or anyone else, for that matter, can do to stop him. He's already seduced their secret keeper; I thought it was Black, but evidently, he transferred the responsibility, like any ruthless, brooding adolescent would, to Pettigrew. Why they didn't maintain Sirius, or enlist the werewolf, I do not know. Fools! ...But I am more the fool. For spying. For overhearing the prophecy. For telling my master. But, you see, he would have gotten it from me anyway, or killed me, and I was not strong enough a man to resist that! I was not a man; I am not a man. I deserve no such title. I am as the muggle filth upon which they cast their hatred. And I had no means of knowing it would be them! You must understand me when I say that I had not the faintest idea, and if I did, perhaps things would be different, for my own selfish reasons. And I'd save them all the suffering in the world, even James', if I could; you must believe me. Even the son who would have served as the most prevalent reminder of a love that wretched man had that I simply would never acquire. I would hate it, Albus, but it would be all the better, and... oh, God. Please, do not take this plea lightly. I do not often disclose such emotions. In fact, I don't believe I ever have, and this you well know. So consider that, please, when you consider my plea; I beg of you, let me work for your side–her side. I'll do whatever you say, as long as it would have been in her best interest. Because, frankly, my loyalty lies neither with the Dark Lord nor you; it lies with that woman who will be reduced to nothing more than ash so soon... too soon... And perhaps it is better that she never knew of my love, for she could never know of my high treachery, and she will never know of my loss. I owe her my life, and without your approval, I fear I shall take it myself."_

Snape woke once again in a hot sweat, on the verge of screaming. This would have to end.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

If nobody else noticed Hermione's nearly incessant absence from daily wizardly affairs, Ginevra Weasley did. And she was quite bent on figuring out what Hermione was hiding from her, because she was certain her best friend was hiding something.

And it just so happened that Ginny made this decision just as Hermione had made hers of whether or not to return to Draco. The decision came with much difficulty, too, so it was rather inconvenient that Ginny interrupted her directly afterward.

She first wondered if Draco deserved the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it was truly an accident. Perhaps he'd jammed his lips against hers out of complete serendipity because he had lost his balance, or he was delirious, or maybe it had been an exercise of some strange Death Eater custom of which she'd never heard.

But all that seemed far-fetched, even to a woman looking for an unlikely loophole that would make it all turn untrue.

So he'd kissed her. And he'd meant to do it. Big deal. Lots of friends kiss.

Right?

Well, she'd certainly never kissed Harry that way.

So it was more than a friendly peck. But that didn't have to mean anything, nor did she want it to do so. She was a grown woman, in a mature relationship, and she had no time for such childish digressions. And plus, he probably hadn't meant anything by it. He was probably just acting on impulse because he was lonely or horny, or a grand mixture of both. Yes, that was definitely it.

She had to do what any grown woman in an adult relationship would do, then. She would go back, yes, but not for the reason he probably fervently hoped. She would return to discuss it with him, like the mature adults they were. Surely he would understand, and be able to provide a satisfactory explanation for what had happened. Because it meant nothing, and he would tell her she was being foolish for considering it so deeply, and he would probably even snicker at her like he always did, with that same sultry smirk that probably got her to kiss him back in the first place...

No. She hadn't kissed him back. That would have been absurd.

Had she?

Oh, Merlin, she had. And she'd enjoyed it. And it was so, so wrong.

And she was on her way to the library when Ginny caught her in the corridor.

"Hermione Granger!"

"Ginny," she said warmly, turning to her best friend.

"We need to talk."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh, do we?" Somewhere in the back of her mind, she panicked. But honestly, Ginny could be so _childish _sometimes. The whole world didn't revolve around her mindless drama and gossip. And there was no way she knew about her rendez-vous in the day earlier.

"C'mon," Ginny urged, pulling Hermione into the library.

_Oh, shit. _"Gin, let's go to the kitchen. I'd quite fancy a glass of pumpkin juice." She looked at her friend hopefully.

"We'll have no privacy there," Ginny elucidated absentmindedly, catalyzing the growing lump in Hermione's throat as she pushed open the door. "You can get your pumpkin juice afterwards."

It was rather small, so he would be immediately recognizable. But perhaps Ginny would think it only a coincidence that Draco Malfoy just happened to be sitting in Hermione's favorite room of the house. Oh, of course she would. Hermione gulped, a sick anticipation building in the pit of her stomach.

But he was not there. And somehow, she found that odder than she would have found an interaction between him and her best friend.

Ginny plopped into a cross-legged position on the sofa and waited for Hermione to sit cautiously, straightening out the robes on her lap after she did so. "So, what have you been up to lately?"

Hermione's life flashed before her eyes. She was not accustomed to lying, and she would have to do it to her favorite friend in the world right then. But how did she know? Surely it was impossible. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked urgently.

Ginny smiled knowingly. "Well, clearly it means something when you answer me like _that_." Hermione's stare shifted. "So spill."

"Honestly," Hermione drawled uneasily. "Nothing has been going on. I've been considerably tired, and quite worried, what with everything happening so quickly. So I suppose you may be suspecting the signs of plain-old stress."

"What happening so quickly? The war? Ron?" Ginny paused briefly and her eyes widened. "Hermione, are you _pregnant?_"

"Ginny!" Hermione screeched, surprised. "Of course not!"

"Well, that's swell, because I definitely did not want to think about... _that_."

Hermione chuckled. She considered saying something along the lines of, "well, you should get used to it, _sister_," but decided against it. "No, it's the war. Sometimes I just feel so worthless to the cause. I don't know; it's complex. I suppose it's been wearing everybody thin."

"I suppose," Ginny agreed rather questioningly. "Well, alright, Hermione. I won't question you any further. But don't think for a second I believe you. I'll be watching you," she warned, her bright pink lips curling into a girlish smile. And for some incomprehensible reason, it put Hermione at great unease.

Needless to say, she was relieved when Ginny left, and that was not a good feeling at all. Best friends were for confiding in. Confiding one's deepest, darkest secrets. It just so happened that her best friend was also quite inconveniently her fiance's sister. And it just so happened that her sole deepest, darkest secret was that she'd kissed her fiance's worst enemy, and all whilst they were engaged. But that didn't mean anything, at all. It wasn't like she'd _shagged _the man. (Ron would certainly think so, even if he never found out.) No, it didn't mean anything at all.

Did it?

She was scanning one shelf of the library when she felt a hand on her waist and looked up to see another against the books a few inches above her head with its palm slammed against the bindings. She whipped around, hair nearly whistling in the air with speed.

"You came back." His grey eyes boring into her like that, she couldn't quite concentrate.

"Er... well, yes," she said softly. "Why shouldn't I? It's a free country."

He snorted again. And again. He thought she sounded so _American. _And she was such a _feminazi._ Not that the two facts had any congruence.

She didn't like their position, nor did she approve of the fact that he expected her to either prolong conversation with pointless garble or just watch him smirk, watch his eyes move without the rest of his body. It was intimidating, but he was like that: just a towering entity. He made her feel so small, and she didn't like that. So she decided on the pointless garble. "Why weren't you here?"

He still did not move and still, his eyes bore intently into her. "Well, what with my immense popularity and crowded social calendar..."

"Let's talk."

"Let's not."

"I'm serious."

"As am I."

"We're both mature adults. We can talk this over. We're capable of discussing a stupid mistake, perhaps finding out what on earth we were–"

Again, her speech was interrupted by an "mmnngh" emitted from her mouth, for he had kissed her once more. This time, though, it was rough. He'd enclosed his lips over hers, violently plunging his tongue into her mouth while simultaneously squeezing her bum, although the hand above her head planted firmly on the bookshelf had not moved. She was taken by surprise, and all of it was really quite animal. He was taking what he wanted, and it was fast, and it was rough, and it was sexy. And again, she began to kiss back, and soon her own soft palm wrapped around the nape of his neck, her other pressed firmly against his chest. There was a rhythm to this passion, and it was quickening, and she was afraid it would get out of hand. So she used her palm to push him away and turned her cheek. He stopped immediately, breathing heavily.

"Why did you do that?" she whispered, exasperated.

"To shut you the hell up," he said quietly before donning his wide, wicked grin. That same wicked grin she'd found positively attractive.

But the nerve of him! She came back, she assuaged his doubts, and he repaid her by testing his limits! It was a slimy, Malfoy thing to do. She shouldn't have expected anything more. She shouldn't have been in that situation.

And so she told him. "This is wrong. This is so wrong, Malfoy."

He frowned. "Let's do it again." He moved in once more but caught her cheek in a harmless nibble.

"Let's talk."

"Later."

"This is–" Her blood ran cold and her face turned a blank white. There was someone fiddling with the doorknob.

They'd split apart and straightened themselves out before an excited _"Alohomora!" _was recanted, and soon Hermione found herself staring into the questioning face of Ginny Weasley. But only for a second; the girl was positively gleaming.

"What is it?" Hermione asked. Ginny held out her left hand, perched atop which was a gigantic sparkling diamond. "You've got to be kidding me," Hermione said, dumbfounded.

Ginny squealed. "No!" Another giggle. Harry entered the room, smiling sheepishly, and then Ginny screamed, "we're engaged!" before enclosing her best girlfriend in an overwhelming embrace.

Draco stood in the corner looking quite uncomfortable.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Wow. Close to 4000 hits. This is incredible. Thanks to my loyal readers... wow, do I really have loyal readers? Ah, this is so strange. I'm supposed to be the loyal reader, not the other way around. Anyhow, this chapter doesn't have much D/Hr action, but it's incredibly important to the plot, and allows for even more drastic advances in the coming chapters. If anyone's confused about Snape, you can read my position on him in my essay, which is also stored under my fanfiction account, entitled, _Avada Kedavra! and Other Mistakes: An Essay._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx **

He lurked in the shadows cast be the doorway instead of utilizing it, and such was the way by which he lived his life. He would rather simply watch the unlikely couple in affectionate bliss than to interrupt them at the expense of jealousy and resent. And he'd rather watch them in love than to fall in love himself. And so far, he'd prevailed.

He decided to enter the kitchen as Lupin was absentmindedly sipping coffee, reading the paper, and talking to his love in his characteristically mild tone, all simultaneously. He'd chosen the time as to not interrupt the girl if she were to open her mouth to utter some peppy, cheerful response–his own air of severity would stain the presence of her words. Granted, he never found Nymphadora Tonks particularly attractive, but she made him feel old and weary with her youthful vitality. He wondered how Lupin adjusted, but then again, Remus had always dealt with friends less mature than he, always balancing them in demeanor and his unique fair-mindedness. And Snape required just that very virtue then.

Severus cleared his throat. Tonks looked alarmed or surprised to see him (he could not quite discern the reaction), and made an effort at a warm smile, but Lupin did not look up at all. He sniffed the air and muttered a preoccupied "Severus," nodding his head.

"A word, Remus?" he asked coldly.

Lupin looked at Tonks as if he needed her approval. She flashed in her eyes uncertainty back at him and he rose from his place at the table. Then he nodded at Severus and motioned with his head for them to enter the hallway from which Snape had previously eavesdropped and envied.

Snape barely waited for Nymphadora to be out of earshot before he said darkly, "The dreams. They're coming again."

"Well, Severus, ambiguity will get you nowhere," Lupin laughed. "For all I know you could be dreaming of Christmas Feast with forty virgins."

Snape eyed him coldly, a scowl forming in the hard contours of his face. "Don't pretend you don't know very well the horrors of which I dream," he scoffed. Lupin's face darkened, his normally bright eyes fading in the shadows. "He's doing it because he's losing trust. In me, in everyone... it's not as if I've done anything to merit any personal discrimination. Nevertheless, the difference between the others and myself is that no one else has occlumency skills so advanced that the Dark Lord need penetrate his unconscious thoughts to retrieve information. And no one else has a burden like mine–a secret like mine– to bear." Lupin bowed his head. "Last night it was of my admittance to the order. He'll be analyzing it very closely. I would be a fool to say we've no reason to fear."

Remus' heart skipped a beat and it looked as though he'd the wind knocked out of him. His fair eyes widened in surprise and concern, and his mouth parted slightly. It looked like he was trying to respond for a few moments, but through movements of his lips, nothing protruded. Finally he found the words. "Perhaps there is a remedy... some sort of–"

"There is no potion to rival the will of the Dark Lord. Our only hope would be a mixture to induce insomnia, but its preparation is difficult and its side-effects considerable in magnitude. And aside from that, it would arouse suspicion." He paused. "Remus," his voice resonated almost with a hint of affection. "If he discovers me, given the assumption that he has not already, I'll not return. None is safe here. We must transfer to the Black estate."

Remus ran roughened, scarred fingers through his blond hair, exhaling deeply. "What must be done shall be done," he said simply. Another pause. "Will Harry and Ginny be able to hold their engagement ceremony here?"

Severus' expression hardened. "I do not recommend it," he said bitterly. "But do what you see fit, I suppose, as you will anyway." With that, the old professor turned and walked away, cloak following the motions of the air currents he created. Lupin stood there motionless, contemplating what he'd just been told, before nervously running his hand through his hair once more. He felt a familiar grasp on his shoulders and turned to eye her uncertainly. She kissed his neck and rested her head where her hands lay as if to tell him everything would be alright.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Brothers! We'll be brothers!" Ron shouted drunkenly, pulling an apprehensive Harry into an embrace with Fred, George, Bill and Charlie, two fire whiskies in either hand. "Your name can be..." Ron stumbled around a bit before shouting excitedly, "Harry P-p-p-p-peeercy!" His brothers stared at him uneasily, but were also a tad too pissed to realize the morbidity of his words. Harry, on the other hand, did, but was too nervous to say anything before he saw Ron's eyes widen. "I've always wanted a _brother_," he said quite seriously, and kissed Harry on the cheek. Fred and George doubled over in laughter and gave each other high-fives.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ron!" he whined and pushed his best mate away. "Put the drinks down, for Merlin's sake! You've had enough!"

"What drinks?" Ron asked provocatively, hiding his mugs behind his back. But Harry could not be fooled, especially due to the fact that Ron had spilled them in the process of shoving them near his arse, forming a questionable ale-coloured stream behind his pants that looked distinctly like urine.

A smirk formed on Harry's face, and then he heard a chuckle that wasn't his. Hermione edged behind him, a well-meaning half-frown painted across her lips. "Ron! Put those down before you drench your robes," she admonished him in between chuckles.

"Yesss master," Ron said, and attempted to put the mugs on a table, but ended up missing the edge, sending them crashing to the floor. He seemed not to notice. "Well now you know who wears the family in _this _pants," he laughed before giving Hermione a slobbery kiss on the mouth. He then pulled her into another embrace with Harry. "We'll be _sisters_," he gasped before an expectant, "Come, love, may I have a dance?" to Harry, who proceeded to physically turn him around to face his fiance, to whom the question was probably directed. Ron did not seem to notice the change of position, either, and pulled Hermione to the dance floor, ignorant of the silent plea dictated in her face to Harry. "I love you soooo much, I don't think that I," he managed to enunciate before vomiting on the wooden floor. Hermione gave Harry a reproachful look before pulling Ron to his feet and taking him off to nurse back to health.

She returned just in time to make toasts on Ron's behalf, and the guests got a kick out of the reason why he could not make them himself. For the longest time, she noticed Malfoy's absence, despite her business, but eventually she spotted him in the corner and gave him an unsure glance, which, of course, was reciprocated with a full-fledged, rather sardonic grin. He left after an hour or so.

Harry and Ginny danced together into the night, clinging to one another as though they would not have the chance for the rest of their lives. _Well, they might not have that chance_, Hermione thought morbidly. This was no longer a time where couples could be ensured a long life together, even by muggle standards. This was a time where friends feared for the lives of friends, lovers for the lives of lovers, family for the lives of family. And the threat was increased tenfold when your friends, lovers, and family were comprised of Harry Potter, the famous Boy-Who-Lived, and his closest constituents. But he never chose that fate for himself, the fate of a hero; he was simply born, and he simply lived. He was human too; Harry Potter deserved to be human for once, and this was the night he could celebrate his deep love and affection for the woman who could hopefully redeem him in his time of darkness–Ginevra Weasley. And of course, Hermione never worried for herself, although she was in grave danger. And such was her nature.

The guests, despite the dark, overlying must of fear in the atmosphere, seemed to enjoy themselves: finally, there was something for which to celebrate. It was as though a king were engaged–a rabble-rousing victory for the light side–and, in essence, Harry was a king, even to Severus Snape, even to Draco Malfoy. ...Both of whom showed up.

None in the room was prouder than Mrs Weasley and possibly Remus Lupin. They had different means of expressing such pride, of course–Mrs Weasley beaming and bubbling over conversation and toasting and crying; Lupin smiling often, in his mild manner, wishing so deeply that his best friends could have been witness to their own son's and godson's engagement. But perhaps if he had been, none of this would have happened. Thus, it was a bittersweet pride, more refined and well-worn than Mrs Weasley's, but by no means greater in value or morality. He made the most impressionistic toast of the night:

"Ah, and here we find ourselves guest to a joyous evening, a victory even, for our efforts. And here we find ourselves in envy of a gorgeous, vibrant couple, soon to be wed to enjoy happiness for the rest of their days." He paused. "But for me, I can only see James. I can only see Lily. And as I think of the circumstances, it is the best day of my life despite bitterness; I can see them again. Harry and Ginny are smiling in the face of adversity just as my dear friends did; they are superceding all odds. Nevertheless, they have not replaced the bravest people I know, but have joined them in their legacy. To Harry and Ginny!"

At that point, had he been present, Ron probably would have grumbled on about how he was always in Harry's and his sister's shadows, but a wide, shameless grin erupted on Hermione's face and she joined the rest of the room in their choruses of "To Harry and Ginny!" and "Ayes." And then all hell broke loose as cheers began turning into shrill shrieks and screams as the whole room broke into absolute pandemonium. The last thing Hermione saw of Lupin was his proud expression turn cold, guilty and sour before she found herself face to face with a hooded man in a white death eater mask.

Before anyone knew for certain what was truly happening, spells were cast across the rather quaint room (expanded into a large dance floor, of course, for the occasion) with precision. Hermione heard Harry screaming for Ginny to run, and Ginny for him to "shut the bloody fuck up" because she wasn't going to leave him. And so, Harry was faced with a double duty of protecting himself and his future wife, whether or not she could take care of herself. Hermione held her ground as well, sending at least a few of the enemy running whilst they were still disorganized. She felt a sharp pain in her abdomen and realized she'd just dodged another of Antonin Dolohov's infamous silent incantations, the same one for which she'd sustained wounds before in the Ministry in her fifth year, but still felt the aftershock. _Must have been close... too close... _Was all she could think before firing various hexes at him, but he managed to escape, cackling maniacally the whole way. She ended the battle just in time to prevent a Cruciatus curse from reaching Harry with a determined _" Prior Incantato!"_ and he nodded thankfully at her before disarming another Death Eater with the Expelliarmus charm. Hermione thought quickly to lock Ron's room, and did so silently.

Witches and wizards were moaning on the ground, and that only meant that the Order had sustained losses; only Death Eaters could leave men in such agony–Aurors always ended lives quickly and painlessly, as was their doctrine. (Draco was probably studying this...) The room reeked of blood and severed organs. The Order was holding up as best it could, and a considerable number of Death Eaters had fled. And then she saw it. Hermione Granger saw the procession of Harry Potter's death.

She saw Bellatrix Lestrange raise her wand, and she saw her open her mouth to form those awful words, and she saw herself in the back of her mind running and screaming but doing nothing to prevent it.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!" _A flash of green light shot across the room and Hermione let out an agonizing sob before realizing that it was not Harry lying on the ground, but his attacker. She looked over to see a brooding Severus Snape had come to the rescue.

From then on, it was an easy win for the Order, with Snape firing hexes effortlessly to the dismay of Death Eaters who would surely take this to a stern, resolute Dark Lord as evidence of his loyalty, or lack thereof. Soon the oldest Aurors and their cohorts had organized themselves and were literally obliterating the enemy–Snape, Lupin, Tonks, Bill, Charlie, Fleur, Arthur and Molly Weasley, Moody, Slughorn, McGonagall, and Shacklebolt, among others, all joined forces and quickly drove the Death Eaters out with regulated attacks. Their faces were stern, their voices content, and it seemed as though they felt remorse and scorn even in destroying all that represented injustice and evil. And so, even after the intruders had all fled or fallen to their awful demise, they did not celebrate, but even if they had wanted such, there was no time to rejoice–there were bodies of which to dispose and wizards to heal. Mediwitches were on the site immediately; Luna Lovegood had alerted them some time ago, and Ginny and Hermione did their best to help, despite the ghastly horrors presented to them. Men were writhing on the ground, bleeding into the earth, bleeding back into their origins, screaming for help that could never be administered even by wizarding means, and praying to some deity in whom they did not believe. Some were calling out to hallucinations and illusions, others sobbing silently. Friends, relatives–like some ruthless virus, the Death Eaters did not discriminate. Hermione grimaced and held back tears in the face of all that was terrible and wrong in the world, but however she may have been able to control the sight, she could not the smell--and the fumes reached the sky like fire racing up dry tree vines, the morbidity in the room penetrating the nerves and emotions of all. Body after body worsened the emotional damage, and soon, Ginny was bawling and had to be exempt of her duties. Hermione stayed behind.

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"Look at what you've done!" Snape bellowed. "Men have died for your misjudgement!"

Lupin rested his head in his hands, massaging the skin along his hairline. "Severus," he said softly. "Do not forget you are not immune to misjudgements, either."

"My mistakes," Snape hissed, "hardly excuse yours."

Lupin exhaled deeply. After a few moments of calculated meditation, he said, "We're heading for Grimmauld Place in the morning. I expect you'll be joining us."

Snape turned away without a word, leaving Lupin to consider his actions, and his ultimate betrayal. And when he could take it no longer, he wept.

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Ron stumbled down the stairwell, massaging his throbbing temples under frizzy clumps of red locks. He made his way sleepily into the kitchen, completely unaware of the fact that the cluster of wizards around the table–his mother, his father, Ginny, Hermione and Harry–was waiting for his arrival alone. He rubbed his eyes and grunted.

"Morning!" Silence. "Why the long faces?" he asked, forging a smile. He only received stares of solemnity in return. "Oh, come off it, I couldn't have done that much damage."

Hermione moved from her seat to put her hand on his shoulder. "Ron," she cooed. He gave her an uneasy look fortified by his mother's sniveling. "No," he said darkly. "I don't like that look. I don't like the sound of that." A necklace of sweat droplets began to form at his brow. "What's going on?" he demanded. There was an extended silence and the group exchanged looks among each other, seeming to vie for anything but the obligation to speak. "Well, somebody's got to tell me," Ron stammered, voice quivering.

Mrs Weasley opened her mouth to speak, but let out a mere dry sob before Mr Weasley commandeered the rather one-man conversation. "Ronald," he said lowly. "Ronald, there was an ambush here last night. We responded with valiance, I assure you, but suffered losses. Ron," he said softly before pausing to exhale deeply. "The twins are dead."

Ron's eyes widened and his lips shook. "W-w-what... w-which twins?" he stuttered.

"Your brothers," Mr Weasley responded, voice cracking in despair on the last syllables.

Ron stood flabbergasted. "M-my... my brothers?" There was a pause and Harry bowed his head. "B-b-both of them?" He shook his head like a man trying to readjust his vision. "I.. I don't... I," he inhaled sharply. "I don't understand... Harry's and Ginny's party was last night, not... I... What? Ha! That's funny." Ron forced a laugh. "This is a joke, right? To get me to stop getting so smashed all the time, right? Ha-ha, you got me!"

"Ron–" came Hermione's voice.

"Good one, really," Ron beamed. "You blokes almost had me there."

Mrs Weasley burst into uncontrollable sobs. "Ronald! Do not upset your mother!" Mr Weasley bellowed.

And then Ron burst into tears himself. "Both of them? Both of them?" he sobbed over and over, and soon Hermione's cheeks flushed with silent tears as well, Harry's head fell in his hands, Ginny's arm found its place around Harry's shoulder and the Weasleys were crying into each other's arms. "Why did no one wake me? W-why... why wasn't I there?" Ron asked rhetorically between sniffling and weeping. "I-I... I could have... I could have done s-s-something... w-why wasn't I there?_ WHY WASN'T I THERE?_" he screamed before breaking down into incoherent sobs once more. "My brothers..."was his last intelligible plea.


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thanks for all the reactions. No matter what, they are greatly appreciated. Keep it up. Or not, it's fine, just enjoy. (Hopefully.) Some comments about this one: first of all, there's a warning that goes along with it. Let me just get that out there. Here goes. **WARNING! SEX. SEX! SEXXX! SEEEX. **There are ... er... sexual interactions in this chapter. And there will be more from here on out. If you are a minor in your state, province, country--what have you--or are particularly offended by such works, please don't read this. But since you will anyway, just don't tell me how old you are. Then I can sort of feel like I'm a good person. Sort of. **You have been warned.** Now, onto the second matter of dire importance: this one's got flashbacks. They are not clearly delineated flashbacks. There are at least two that I can recall. If you are confused, just send me a message and I'll sort things out/talk it over with you. I can't say I haven't been recently influenced by Penn Warren's _All the King's Men_ (Incredible piece of literature, a must-read for all ages of advanced comprehension). So blame the master, not me. I am a mere servant of the word. But I tried to make it as easily understandable as I could. Lastly, I've had some comments that things are rushed in this chapter. Perhaps. But if you pay attention, you'll grasp it. Or maybe it's my fault. Remember that these are consenting adults. And adults are known to fuck on the first date. Or get utterly plastered and do trannies. Well, perhaps not older adults, but the college scene's pretty interesting, anyhow. Er... of course I don't know. Of course. Either way, it's evolution, and there's been quite a great deal of innuendo between the two. If you have suggestions though, message me. But now I believe I've rambled on for long enough, so I'll let you decide for yourself. Voila!

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"_Colloportus!"_

Hermione stood in front of the door apprehensively, and at his words, wondered if she'd made a dire mistake. It was the door to the same room she'd seen upon the inquisition, the one to which she'd thought Tonks would lead her. She fiddled at the hem of her robes and looked around nervously; he was lounging on a sofa that nearly screamed "look but don't touch," a fag resting leisurely between his fore and middle finger. _Probably feels right at home here,_ Hermione thought bitterly. They'd transferred to 12 Grimmauld Place some time ago, and, needless to say, Draco seemed to be enjoying it far better. He told her it added an element of surprise–she never knew in which of the four massive libraries he'd be.

The guilt she felt for their meetings was immeasurable. She'd originally gone to discuss their disloyalty–_her_ disloyalty–but that didn't quite work out. Obviously. That one kiss led to another, and that to another, and then to a series of kisses, fondles, discussions, and more sexual innuendo. She'd gone to him even after Fred and George's death. She'd been cold, and he'd been ready. To talk, that is.

"It's not my place to be remorseful," she'd sighed. "I loved them, yes. But someone's got to be strong, right?"

He looked up at her with silver eyes and grunted in approval, seemingly engrossed in his book.

"And it's always got to be me, right?"

He closed the book. "Self-pity will get you nowhere. Trust me, I've years of experience. Think the time I almost killed–" he paused. "Well, that's no matter."

"That is a matter."

"It's _not_," he said sternly. But she wasn't about to let it go that easily.

"How could you have had self-pity in an act so atrocious as that?"

He paused for a long time. Her eyes bore into him like shards of glass, but they failed to intimidate him. He would take his bloody time, thank you very much. Finally he exhaled slowly, then spoke. "Because," he breathed, tilting his head sharply, "there was no way out, even if I'd have wanted. Which I did. I always wanted. Since the second I accepted his demands. But it's not as though I had a choice, even then. It was either kill or be killed. And Malfoys always take the route of self-preservation."

She stared at him sadly.

"I hated that man," he said, almost detached. "Don't get me wrong, I _despised _him. Everything about him. Everything that got me persecuted when Potter fucking deserved it, everything that got me persecuted when _I _deserved it."

"You did deserve it."

"Yeah, well." He stared across the room as though searching for an escape that wasn't there. A nervous glance back at her. "How was your day?" he asked coldly.

"You're changing the subject."

"You're being a bitch."

She sent a snarl his way, but said nothing.

"I hated him, but I never," he inhaled sharply. "I never meant–or wanted–to kill him."

She nodded her head.

"So I pitied myself. I had no right, but I did. That's where your heroic son-of-a-bitch caught me–drowning in my own self-pity, and we dueled. And he got fucked. Royally."

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, and so did I. But in a different way, you see? And none of this matters now."

"It always matters. You've never lived with yourself since. It'll matter until you die."

"Which might be pretty soon, by the looks of it. Which is why people like you can't mourn even when you need it. You need to be on guard. You need to be strong. And you're the only one who can be. Because you're a hard-headed, stubborn, outspoken, closed-minded, insufferable shrew."

"And you positively needy," she laughed.

"Am not!"

"No need to get defensive!"

"I am _not _needy!"

She folded her arms against her chest suggestively and gave him a cynical stare. A strap on her tank top fell to her shoulder.

"Well, maybe of certain things," he affirmed, staring at it, grinning wildly. And he reached over to her and snogged her for a good while.

And that's sort of how their meetings went. Some were more light-hearted, others darker. But generally, they all ended in the same manner.

The brains of Gryffindor, of course, found justification for this infidelity: it'd been forty-one days since the deaths of Fred and George, and forty-one days since Ron had said anything to her aside from "pass the salt."

They held a small ceremony; nothing of the magnitude of Dumbledore's funeral. These times were trying enough; a huge ceremony could have attracted Death Eaters or looters willing to attack at even the most desperate of occasions. In fact, they would probably jump at the chance to strike the Order at its weakest, no matter the immorality. A few words were said, respects paid, memories recanted, and flowers left to rot on their unembellished gravestones. Molly Weasley wept endlessly as her husband stood by her in a solemn air. Harry held a teary-eyed Ginny close as he himself felt his eyes well in sorrow. Charlie, Bill, Fleur–they were all there. Hermione was an outcast, standing apart from Ron awkwardly. Ron, who couldn't even touch her. Ron, who seemed like he could never be as strong as Draco. Draco, who paid his respects as well, modestly supporting the family. He stood outside in black robes and mostly stared at his shoes, occasionally looking to Hermione for solace. She was grateful.

They figured the boys died together. There would have been something wrong about one outliving the other. It was like they were intended for each other, and bound together in their star-crossed destinies. Sure, everyone would have been content with just one life–joyful, even. But what is life but dust and clay when purpose expires? What are men but blood and bones when brothers are lost? Dust, clay, blood, and bones, to be molded into everything and nothing, but never something the same as they had been when life hadn't its sorrows. And life had so many sorrows.

After everyone had left to clean out what was left of the twins' shop–the one they'd closed to contribute to the war efforts and avoid danger–Ronald remained. He stood over their headstones sullenly, and stayed for at least a few hours, despite rain that came early, and in sheets.

He was there or in his room for the majority of his days thereafter. Of course he was allowed his period of mourning, but this? This was taking a toll on the Auror morale even more than the mere losses had. And it was taking a toll on her emotions.

Because she loved him, she really did, and she hated to see him this way. She could help him, if only he'd let her. But he never did. He'd shut himself out from the world and turned his back to everyone he knew, trusted, and loved.

But even more selfishly, she hated never being in his arms–in his bed–anymore. That subtle touch, the knowing glance, the man she fell in love with so many years ago. She missed it, and nobody could blame her, dammit!

Could they? Could anyone understand?

Harry had done his best to comfort his closest mate, but to no avail. Ron was in a slump and nobody knew how to pull him out of it.

But that didn't mean she had to be completely void of all happiness.

She stared at the blond man, tracing the defined lines of his jaw with her eyes. He still wore that same intolerable smirk reminiscent of his younger years.

"This is so wrong," she breathed.

"Nothing stopping you from leaving," he grunted. "The door's right behind you." He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with the toe of his shoe on the ground.

She stood in silence without turning around.

"Well then," he sighed, getting up off the recliner and moving toward her stealthily. He said the Imperturbable charm confidently, and it made her wonder just how much noise they'd be making. She took a deep breath and in a moment, found herself exhaling into his mouth. He'd pinned her against the door in his signature position: one hand on it, above her head, and the other grasping her bum.

He inched the fabric of her robe higher until he felt bare flesh and squeezed. She bit his lip, sighing mildly. He pulled her pelvis closer to his, grinding against it slightly, and she could feel his erection growing against her abdomen. In the heat of the passion, she wrapped her leg around his waist, burrowing her fingers into his blond head of hair, and with the other hand, she grabbed his crotch, catalyzing his terse moan off to the side of his mouth. With a few swift movements, she'd ripped off his shirt and unbuckled his belt, and soon her knickers were on the floor. While she leaned her robes off, he took the liberty in removing his own trousers, but like magnets they were in each other's arms again, she caressing his upper back and he unclasping her bra. He didn't have enough time to examine her body, but kissed and bit her neck, and when she wrapped her naked leg around his waist again, he plunged into her, causing her to release a sharp sigh as her breathing quickened. She wrapped both hands around the nape of his neck and kissed him more deeply, and then he pulled her other leg around his waist as well, and grasped her bum hard enough to leave marks as he banged her into the wall repeatedly to the same rhythm of his thrusts.

_So that's what he needed the Imperturbable charm for,_ she thought almost comically between thoughts of _I love Draco, I love Draco_ that were quickly discredited by the reasoning: _No, you don't love him, you foolish woman. You're just caught up in the moment, that's all._

_Thump, thump, thump_... she would have cared that her spine would be bruised by morning if it hadn't felt _so damn good. _And it was _so damn wrong_, too, which probably contributed to the factor; growing up with the Boy Who Lived and a Weasley son had given her enough thirst for danger for the both of them. Perhaps it was the very fact that they could have been caught doing something that was so wrong that so enticed her.

She dug her fingernails into his back as she neared climax and felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten in pain. With a few moans, she was there, and she was reaching one hand down to her clit to help her along the way, and she nearly screamed his name, but quelled the shout by biting into the pale flesh of his shoulder blades, hard. He gasped, but didn't lose his cool; she could tell by the way he whispered sardonically into her ear, "Does Weasley ever make you scream like that?"

And soon, he'd come as well, moaning softly–empowering her. His eyes flashed blue, the regular crashing against the wall ended, and he let her legs down one at a time. She simply rested her head on his upper chest _(Merlin, he'd gotten so tall) _and fell into his strong embrace.

They stood in silence for a good deal of time, two lovers with only the other's body heat to comfort them, the stench of sex emanating from their skin.

He said nothing as she buried her face into his chest, but soon she felt a familiar hand in her hair, stroking it gently. He kissed the top of her head and then rested his on it. They stood like that for a few moments, and then he reached down to pick up his wand with her still in his arms and summoned her robe.

"C'mon," he said quietly, trying to drape it over her as well as pull up his own trousers. He examined her distant expression thoughtfully. "Never thought I'd see the day a woman this dejected after I shagged her senseless," he laughed sardonically. She was not amused. "Oh come on, Granger, it was a fuck."

"Since when did you start calling me that again?" she said as though she weren't even there at all. It wasn't that he'd simply called her by it, but she just didn't like the way he'd used her last name, especially considering what they'd just done.

"Since you turned so bitter."

"I am _not _bitter."

"Are too. You can't stop thinking about him."

Her brow furrowed in an angry shock. "Well, excuse me for feeling _some _shred of remorse for betraying someone I love." He noticed her evasion of using the words "the man" in place of "someone." Trivial matter, but he noticed it nonetheless. He was receptive like that. "Can't say the same for you, in all your holiness."

This time his brow furrowed as well. "See? Bitter," he mumbled grudgingly, zipping his trousers. She did not respond. "You didn't mean that," he said softly, posing it as a far from rhetorical question.

"No, I didn't," she admitted finally. "Well, I mean, I am remorseful–"

"_Clearly_," he spat.

"Can't you understand?" she asked incredulously. "Why can't you find it in you to just _sympathize_, if not _empathize?_"

"Because it's not logical," he responded calmly, but his breathing turned heavy and she could see he was flustered.

Her expression hardened as she pulled her knickers up from the ground. "Sometimes, Draco Malfoy," she breathed, "there are things to which _logic_ does not apply."

He looked away, rolling his eyes. "He hasn't fucked you in a month and a half. I've kept track."

"Please don't use that language. It's so crude."

"Does it make you feel _uncomfortable_, pet?" he asked, irony dripping from his tongue as some sickly drool. His face was not within a hand span of hers, and the intensity resonated between them. "What about worthless? Fucking worthless?" he asked with relish, an emphasis on the expletive. She cringed. "Because I know what it's like to feel worthless," he whispered. "And I'm certain my profanity isn't what's making you feel worthless."

"It's none of your business!" she shrieked. "He's upset! He has every right to be!"

"But you don't."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

He smiled devilishly.

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There was a soft knocking at the door and Lupin, the light sleeper that he was, stirred immediately, kissed his girlfriend on the cheek, and rolled out of bed full of vive. The knocking continued despite his clearly delineated footsteps toward the door, and he growled well-meaningly, pulling a shirt over his head and slipping his feet into slippers made specially for him by Mrs Weasley. _Poor woman, always looking out for others rather than herself–_knock. Knock, knock. _I'm coming, dammit!_

He pulled the door open forcefully, clearly aggravated, but the snarl on his face quickly subsided when he saw who had so adamantly requested his presence: a distraught Harry Potter stood, no--stumbled--before him, drenched from head to toe in sweat and tears, eyes a puffy red colour behind clouded glasses and perspiration saturating his graying tee-shirt that was plastered to his chest and boxer shorts. It was a truly pathetic sight; he sniveled and whispered, "Dad," before collapsing into the werewolf's arms, barely supported on account of Lupin's weight loss–the war was taking its toll.

"C'mon," Lupin whispered in a low, husky voice. "C'mon," he repeated, slinging Harry over his back in order to take him to a more undisclosed location. A few hallways by and he'd found just the room: Sirius' old bedroom, or, rather, hideout–he'd used it to smuggle the marauders during their summers from time to time without the knowledge of his horrid relatives. James had insisted he show them around, and so he did, much to his own dismay. There were no shrieking paintings there, and had never been. Lupin nearly smiled at the thought of it, but when he'd lain Harry onto a plain bedspread, the smile was obliterated at the sight of a bleeding scar. After removing Harry's glasses, he ripped a strip of his robe off to dab at the wound, but to no avail–dark magic was afoot. Harry suddenly blinked his eyes open.

"There, there, m'boy," Lupin cooed.

"I... I saw them..." he said, garbling his words.

"Whom?" Nothing. "Harry, whom did you see?"

"My mum and dad... they were here and..." his eyes fluttered shut once more.

"Fuck!" Lupin shook the boy he knew only as a son desperately, as though he were on the verge of considering resuscitation. Finally he awoke once more and began to sob. "Now, now," Lupin sighed with relief, pulling Harry into a manly embrace.

Finally he spoke shakily through the tears. "He's trying to break me. T-t-tried to tell me things about my mum, Snape–" A dry sob interrupted his monologue. "And, and–and I don't think there's any way I can beat him now... not without Dumbledore..." he paused pensively. "Where's Dumbledore? Where is 'e?" Lupin eyed him sadly and he began to slip into unconsciousness once more, but upon snapping out of it, seemed to have forgotten his inadvertent inquiry. "And we're just so far away and we haven't got even the slightest clue! It's so much bigger than me... so... so much bigger..." Harry's eyes began to shut again but Lupin lightly slapped his cheek and he awoke again, this time, hopefully, for good. "Why me?" came the unavoidable sob. "Why me? Why not Neville? Why not _somebody else_, dammit? Anybody! _Anybody, anybody else_..." Harry buried his head into Lupin's chest.

Lupin shushed him repeatedly. "Dunno, mate. Wish it weren't you, as well; then I'd have gotten to keep you _and _your mum and dad," he laughed bitterly.

"And Sirius," Harry added wistfully, and Lupin's eyes darkened.

"Yes, him too."

"I just... I just–the war's so close now; it came to my _engagement party_," he shrieked. "It got Fred and George! It made Ron like this! It tried to kill my future wife! And what if it does?"

"It won't. Shush, it won't."

"What if it does? Then what've I got to live for? What if I fail, then? And I will." Harry was brooding.

"You won't. It won't."

"He's trying to break me, Remus. He's going to break me down. He's going to take everything I love." Another sob. "And he knows," Harry cried, pointing to his throbbing, bleeding scar. "And I'd rather give myself up than give them, if it would mean this whole mess could be over."

Lupin slapped his face. "Are you in the right mind?" Harry shook his head fervently. "Don't you say that, boy; don't you dare. Your parents started this, now let's finish it, let's make them proud. Don't you give up now, don't you give up when we know what's at stake. It's not just about your losses anymore, it's about everyone's losses. It's not just Ginny and Ron, it's my family and muggles and innocent children and people you've never met and people you love dearly. _Don't you give up now._"

More sobs. "I know, I know, I can't. B-b-but I wish I could, oh Merlin..."

"Shh. Shh, you need rest."

Lupin and Harry slept on Sirius' old single bed that night, Harry shriveled in a fetal position and Lupin propped on his side, occasionally stroking the boy's hair. And he hoped his children, should he have them, would grow never to know the horrific truths of war. At that point, Remus Lupin knew he had to talk to Severus, talk him into revealing himself to the boy who needed the truth of war that mattered most.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Still high off the reviews. And the page hits. You all are wonderful. Some notes about this story, and then I'll move to the individual chapter. _Hermione Granger is a Whore_–to tell you the truth, I chose it for shock value. Because what would you rather click on, some boring, fluffy rhetoric, or a title with the word "whore" in it? I think the thirteen-year-old in all of us would go with the "whore." And, of course, it has pertinent relevance to the subject matter. Which is what a title should be: shocking and relevant. Or at least catchy, but I've been told mine's not. However, if the title irks you all that deeply, and if you have suggestions, feel free to message me. Just stop leaving the redundant, "Omg this title is offensive and nobody will read it," reviews, because obviously, people are reading it, and also, it doesn't really help me come up with better ideas. Now onto the next topic of discussion! This chapter directly references a page of _Half Blood Prince._ Kudos if you can pinpoint the spot. But I just had to throw that out there to make sure you guys didn't think I'd come up with the dialogue. Granted, it's not very creative dialogue on JKR's part, but it's hers nonetheless. I take no credit. Except for the fact that I secretly wrote it all for her.

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Hermione was reading over the marble kitchen counter when Draco rounded the corner to squeeze her bum. She gave him a cold stare as if to say, "Not here," and he returned it with a wink–"Maybe later." And then when a few visiting aurors–Scrimgeour, Moody and McGlaggen–entered the room ready with buzzing parchment _(Battle plans, battle plans, battle plans... when are they going to actually execute one?), _he said, "Granger, I have something of yours," in an oh-so-audible tone that made her cringe with a foul feeling of foreboding, and placed in her open palm the crumpled, bright green knickers she'd worn the night before. And a week before that. Her face flushed a bright pink colour as she prayed the men at the table hadn't seen the transaction, and as she hastily shoved them into her robe pockets, all the while, of course, Draco grinned devilishly. Merlin, he loved to start a scene.

Thankfully, the Aurors had not seen, and were now busily outlining their plans. Hermione didn't like the sound of it; there were far too many "Harry"s affirmed and atypical places–"Hogsmeade," "Godric's Hollow"– announced boisterously, as though they had little nostalgic value. How could either side turn so apathetic as to carelessly destroy the places they loved? And _Harry._ Harry was in no condition to win the war, or much less do anything in his current state. For a man who'd been so sure from the closing of his adolescence, he'd finally cracked. She'd sooner betray him than send him off to battle; in essence, doing so was equivalent to betrayal itself.

But she'd already betrayed him. She'd betrayed him nearly every night of that week, leaving Ron's bed in the wee hours of the morn to accompany Draco in his, in a completely meaningless _(Is it meaningless, Hermione?)_ and rather elementary feat. Their affair could amount to nothing so far as she could tell, yet, for every day Ron withheld his love, she continued it. It didn't help, either, that Draco could be so goddamn sexy. She wondered why he was attracted to her at all; she'd never been beautiful, or even good-looking, and with every day the war raged on, the fat around her middle increased, the bags under her eyes darkened, and her hair got all the wilder. But then she remembered he wasn't attracted to her–she was probably just a last resort for his libido. It was probably difficult to find any outlet for that when he was locked in the mansion all day. And even if he did, fat chance she'd approve of his recent revelations. She was his only option. _Good,_ she thought, and assured herself that she'd never wish it to be anything more.

By the time she'd stopped her daydreaming, the Aurors at the kitchen table were staring at her expectantly.

"Oh, right," she sighed. "Very well, I'll be on my way." She picked up her cup of tea and straightened her robe before promptly following through with her promise. They nodded in approval and waited until she'd left the room to commence their strategy discussions.

A few hours later she was in his arms once more.

"So did you always loath me?"

"Pretty much. And that's an understatement." He hated to talk after a good fuck, but "silence" was not a word in her immeasurably expansive vocabulary. They both didn't like to cuddle, either, but somehow he was compelled to hold her in a tight embrace, her back against his chest.

"So you're saying there was not one single moment when you felt anything but utter hatred for me, is that right?"

"Oh, sure, I felt other things. Disgust, for instance, or–"

"Oh, quit while you're ahead, will you? I was being quite serious."

"Well there was that time at the Yule Ball when I nearly creamed my pants–"

"Draco."

"Look, I was young and stupid, okay? I didn't know any better. I didn't know," he kissed her neck, "how lovely," another kiss, "how captivating–"

"Cut it out," she sighed.

"Of anyone, I thought you'd understand best." He paused, and she looked back at him. He couldn't quite decipher her expression. Perhaps it was one of comprehension, of love, even. Or maybe distrust. It was a conundrum. "Now come off it and blow me," he whispered slyly.

She complied.

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"Severus!" Lupin's cloak billowed behind him as he stormed briskly into the potion master's sleeping quarters. "Severus!" His voice roared through the halls at a deafening decibel, the floorboards nearly crumbling under his feet. There was not a time anyone could remember Remus Lupin acting in anger. It was as though years of pent up frustration were amounting to this grand outburst.

Snape, though he was the more powerful wizard, was frightened. He had never before seen Lupin out of control like this, save nights under the full moon. Whatever his fear was, however, he did not show it, and stood still, facing a window overlooking a stormy London morning. He whipped around just as Lupin barged into the room, and found himself nose-to-nose with an irate werewolf.

"Tell the boy," he rasped, "or I'll kill you right here, right now."

Snape's lip quivered for a moment, and then formed a sardonic smirk. He exhaled, and then stepped back calmly. Lupin was shaking violently. "And what," Snape began, "may I ask"–a cold pause–"should I tell him?"

A fist formed at Lupin's side. "You know very well what you should tell him, Severus. Do not pretend you are ignorant. Tell him now." With the conclusion of his words, the two engaged in a deadly staring contest. "Go!" Lupin shouted, and Snape winced. Lupin was breathing heavily when Snape whisked around resentfully to tend to the Potter boy. His steps were heavy to match Lupin's breathing. Even as Snape left, Lupin stood in his room in a sort of disbelief, but not for long–he subsequently launched his fist into the wall, which, to his horror, shrieked in pain. He didn't feel the need to issue an apology to an inanimate object. A terse "fuck!" seemed to do the trick, anyway. And soon enough, he was on Snape's tail to ensure the dark wizard was on his way to Harry's room, where the boy lay on Sirius' old bed.

Snape came upon Harry's quarters and paused outside the door for a moment, thoughts racing. But it was only a moment; shortly thereafter, cloaks billowed behind him as he walked to the boy's bedside. It was a pathetic sight. Harry stared at him blankly, blood crusting around his scar, salt and dirt plastering his hair to the sides of his face, where tears and sweat once spilled over in rivers.

He hadn't the slightest clue as to what to say. Harry blinked.

"You, Voldemort told me about you, he said–"

"Shut up, boy, and listen to me." Snape's thin lips quivered. Tension was thick in the air. "Listen to me," he reaffirmed quietly. "Do you know why Dumbledore trusted me in the first place? After all I'd done?"

Harry shook his head.

"Mr Potter. In your fifth year you came across a particular possession of mine, something I had wished to keep hidden, especially from you. Do you recall this?"

Harry nodded this time.

"Are you remorseful for it? For infiltrating my privacy? For taking something that did not belong to you?"

Yet another head nod.

Anger welled in the wizard's eyes. "_Say it!_ Say it, then!" He held his wand to Harry's chin, and then the tears came once more. His hand shook violently out of the mere intensity.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! _I'm so sorry_," Harry sobbed.

"_SEVERUS!"_ Remus was at the door. Snape furled his lips in a snarl.

"Did you think I hated you for that? For your father's actions?" He decided to quit stalling. "Potter, I loved your mother! All these years, all these years... how could you be so dense not to see it? Rescuing you time after time, despite my innate hatred for you... Why do you think the Dark Lord gave her the choice to live in the first place? He certainly could not have benefitted from the sparing of her. That is, unless his most valued minion were to request it. And who do you think witnessed the murders to disclose that information in the first place? _Who?_"

Harry's mouth gaped.

"_WHO!"_ Snape's long fingers grasped Harry's collar in a strangulation brace. "Or did you think I was incapable of such an emotion?"

More boyish sobs.

"Did you?"

"I... I..." Harry rubbed his face into his hands, blood and tears oozing between his fingers.

"Get up! Get up, you pathetic slob!" Snape shrieked. "Get up, or all I've risked for you and your mother has been worthless!" Surely the whole house had heard him by now. "Do you know what it is to hold a grudge? Because if you do not move from your position right now, and get up to fight this war, I'll never forgive you for it. I'll take it to the grave, a grave which I will soon encounter whether you rise or not. Do not let me die in vain. Do not be a coward!"

"I will not be a coward!" Harry affirmed quietly, and then repeated it in a louder tone.

"Then get up!"

Harry rose and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Severus turned and rushed through the door, fuming and irate, whisking past a complacent werewolf.

The werewolf, too, was gone in an instant. Harry needn't know he intervened. The boy would approach him in his own time, with a shocking revelation. Remus smiled smugly.

And for Harry, a shocking revelation, it was indeed. It all made perfect sense, yet seemed so entirely impossible at the same time. He remembered Dumbledore telling him once, in his sixth year, that Snape had no possible way of knowing which boy Voldemort would choose–Neville or him–or what means Voldemort would enlist to ensure the boy's death. The means happened to be the murder of his parents. His mother. _His mother! _And he'd screamed "He hated my dad like he hated Sirius!" and Dumbledore had looked at him sadly, some of the glitter gone from his eyes. It was a look Harry had hoped never to see again, and now he would have exchanged a million looks for that one desolate glance. Dumbledore smiled through empty lips and said...

He'd said, "You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt when he realized how Lord Voldemort had interpreted the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest regret of his life and the reason that he returned–"

Harry had interrupted him, rambling on about Snape's occlumency skills, and how he could have been deceiving the Order the whole time. Of course. What else should he have thought? He asked the most important question of all. _"How can you be _sure _Snape's on our side?"_

And he remembered the look on Dumbledore's face. The sort of puzzled expression. Like he was trying to make up his mind about something.

And this was that something. He'd merely reaffirmed his confidence in Snape, but this was that something. And it killed him. God dammit, it just killed him.

But Snape? He couldn't deny it to himself any longer. Snape was a human being. Perhaps a pathetic excuse for one, but a man nonetheless. And he had loved his mother. He was very much as capable of that emotion as anyone else.

How he loved her, though–that was an enigma to Harry. All they'd shared was an interest in potions. And of course, she'd defended him. Against James!

But he was no match for James Potter.

Dammit! Dammit, and that's why he hated the man so deeply! And that's why he hated Harry, because he was that reminder of the thing Snape would never have, never have because James had beat him to it. The valiant James. James, his reckless father. James, the unworthy bully. James, he never cared about James; hell, he'd have had him die. It was his mother. It was all Lily.

So he did know what it was like to do everything in his capabilities to protect the one he loved, and he knew what it was to fail.

He wouldn't fail. Harry Potter wouldn't fail to protect Ginny Weasley if it killed him. And he was ready to fight, because he wasn't going to die. Nobody was going to die. He was going to win this thing. He was going to win it for Ginny. He'd win it for Fred and George, and for James, for Sirius, for Lily, for Snape. For everyone.


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait; I've been quite busy as of late. Nevertheless, I'd like to thank everyone for all your support. And I have especially enjoyed the snarky reviews in defence of this mildly racy title. I'm thinking of adding individual chapter titles. Suggestions are welcome in the form of private messages, of course. This chapter's fairly long, and again, I'll issue a sex warning. I'm not sure how it turned out, because it was supposed to focus more on home life, but I'm telling you, you'll like where it's going from here on out. But then, maybe you won't. So I suppose you'll have to wait and see! And I really do hope you'll wait.

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The day Harry Potter regained his courage was the day Ron found his. There was a whole commotion in the Black House when Harry began to attend strategy meetings. Mrs Weasley ran to him with sterile cloths in hand, cleaning his wounds, whispering over and over, "Oh, Harry, Harry, you're well..."

Harry smiled in a series of huge stupid grins that hid the severity of his final decision. He figured he'd save his surrogate mother the embarrassment, and washed and dressed himself. Ron had apparently heard it all, and, exempt from mourning, or merely out of jealousy, descended the stairwell to the parlor. The room went silent; it appeared as though Ron was himself again. He smiled, approached Hermione from behind where she sat on a sofa, and surprised her with a kiss on the cheek.

She almost screamed out Draco's name.

Good thing she knew it in her better interest, then, to verify her lovers. She turned her head to see her fiancé and her face lit up. She shrieked and kissed him on the mouth. Something in Draco's stomach twisted an made him feel like hurling. "Ron," she cooed. "How're you feeling?"

His eyes glistened, and for a second she could see just how disconsolate he really was, but he merely responded, "Better than ever." He flashed her a smile. "So, what's the buzz?"

"Oh, Ronald!" Mrs Weasley cried. "Both of you!" She embraced both boys and they smiled dumbly.

"Nice to have you back, mate."

"Nice to be back. Now tell me, you prat, what in the hell is going on!"

Apparently, Mrs Weasley decided she would answer for Harry. "Harry's feeling well, you're feeling well, we're all planning for the end!"

The manner in which she affirmed Harry's decision was dripping with morbidity, but all the cavorting and carousal drowned the magnitude of the task at hand. In fact, through all the drinking and yelling and laughing, Ron barely got the chance to properly greet his fiancee. "Barely," however, was just enough, and he found time.

"Hermione," he said softly, pulling her aside, her hands in his. "I know I've been rather... distant lately. I'd like to make it up to you. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? Just the two of us."

She smiled warmly. "I'd love to. But where?"

"It's a surprise."

"You're just full of surprises today, aren't you?"

"S'pose so," he replied, and kissed her forehead. "We're leaving at seven. Wear something nice. Formal, even."

"Will do!"

"You're beautiful." He gave her a longer kiss on the mouth.

It was interrupted by Ginny's cry of, "Get a room!" Hermione laughed, but Ron yelled back, "Ginny, you little tart, I swear–" and Ginny ran girlishly into Harry's arms. Their owner said simply, "Watch it, brother-in-law."

Draco had retired to his room by that time.

Shortly thereafter, Ginny and Hermione had gone to Sirius' grandmother's room, and for one reason–they both had hot dates that evening, and the woman happened to own the largest vanity known to wizard kind, save, maybe, that of Narcissa Malfoy. It wasn't so much Ginny who really needed the grooming as it was Hermione. The friends knew her hair would take a minimum of two hours to tame.

"You know," Ginny began, running a comb through Hermione's mope, "I'll be happy if we only have to do this two more times."

"And those times would be...?" Hermione laughed, muttering a few incantations along the way.

"Our weddings!" Ginny exclaimed.

"Oh," Hermione said stupidly. She hadn't thought of that in a while.

"You seem excited," Ginny mocked.

"Oh, no, I was just thinking. You know that McGlaggen was injured very badly today in a surprise siege on the Parkinson estate. We think they must have gotten a hint. If it was Snape, we can't really stop up the leak." Nice save, Hermione.

"You sure do have a way of spoiling the mood." Ginny dejectedly recited a spell that made no noticeable changes to Hermione's hair.

"They were all there, Ginny," Hermione whispered. "Moody and his team went expecting extra defence to comprise a few angry house elves, but they were all there. Waiting."

"Horrid, isn't it?"

Hermione sighed at her friend's naive apathy. It was a serious fight. The aurors had held their ground, but only for a while. They were greatly outnumbered and forced to retreat. The outcome, needless to say, was not as expected; they'd gone in search of illegal magical weapons that had gone missing from Gringotts. They returned empty-handed, and with severe injuries. It surely required a direr reaction than that.

"Completely," Hermione sputtered dutifully.

"Isn't it great about Harry and Ron?"

Well, someone was eager to change the subject. Or just oblivious.

"Fantastic," Hermione agreed.

"I was getting worried there for a moment. They don't deserve this."

"Agreed." Another spell on her hair, and a bit of potion should do it...

"'Course, I could rarely find you to talk about it."

"Oh, well, you know..."

"Oh, well, I know what? What have you been doing all these weeks that I can never find you?"

Uh-oh. The moment of truth. "Well, Gin, you'll never believe this, but I've been tutoring."

"You? Tutoring? I'd believe it in a second. But whom?"

"Well, that's the part you won't believe. Now, promise not to laugh."

"No guarantees."

Hermione sighed dramatically. "It's Malfoy!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Oh, the horror! Did Moody put you up to this?"

"Well, in sorts."

"That bastard! You should tell him you aren't dispensable like that. Just because you're a clever witch–the cleverest, even–doesn't mean he can just go about... exploiting you!"

"Eh, it's not too agonising. Don't get me wrong–Malfoy's a complete arse–but he's not half-bad when I'm reporting back to his superiors, if you know what I mean." Hermione's heart sank.

Ginny laughed. "Now that's the spirit! Must be nice to have some control over that git, finally."

"Yeah."

When they'd finished her hair, she slipped into a little black dress. It was rather plain–much more so than Ginny's, which was a fire engine red to match her hair, of course–but it hugged her curves in all the right places, and would be enough to make Ron's jaw drop a bit. Her hair was pulled sleekly back into an intricate bun, a few ringlets shaping her face here and there.

"Hermione, you look lovely," Ginny said earnestly.

"As do you!" Hermione exclaimed, and the friends embraced.

Harry and Ginny left some time before Hermione and Ron, off to some undisclosed location as well. Just as Hermione was hurriedly pulling on a heel, though, her favorite student caught her in the corridor.

"My god, woman. You clean up well." She whipped around at the sound of that same low voice that made her tremble a little. "More than well," he affirmed, staring at her chest.

"Shall I fetch you a towel? Quit drooling," she said sheepishly.

"Only if you tell me where you're going that you have to look so delicious."

"Er, well, I..." she could have been twiddling her thumbs. "I'm going out for dinner."

"With Weasley?" His eyes went cold.

"Well... yes."

He seemed to ignore her. "Will I see you tonight?" he asked, clearly irritated.

She eyed him sadly with no response, and he snarled at her before storming off, his hands letting off steam and stress by running through white-blond strands.

"What was that about?" Ron questioned, running down the stairs.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, and they kissed.

"My..." Ron's jaw dropped and he turned bright red before garbling his words.

"What is it, Ron?"

"It's just that... I just... I mean..." he paused to regain composure. "You look gorgeous."

"Not half bad-looking yourself, mister!" She giggled, but somewhere in the back of her mind she was juxtaposing Ron's awkward, boyish actions with Draco's suave, collected presence.

"Nah." His cheeks flushed a bright red.

"So now are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Ah-ah-ah, not so fast."

"But then how will we apparate?" Ron donned a devilish grin. "Ron?" No response. "Uh-oh, I don't like that look."

"C'mon!" He exclaimed, grabbing her hand and pulling her out the door.

"Ron!" They ran to a cellar near the back of the house. Hermione gasped when she recognised his plans. "Oh, no. No way. Nah-ah." She shook her head fervently. "You know I hate to fly."

"Not anymore you won't," he grunted, and pulled out a brand new broom. "Look what I bought," he gleamed. "A Thunderbolt One. First in its class. Ridiculously agile, if I do say so myself." Her stomach dropped as she remembered the last time she'd ridden a Thunderbolt. "Fancy a ride _now?_"

She sighed. Sometimes he could be so dense. Nevertheless, she figured she could sacrifice the contents of her stomach for a mere broom ride; if she were to refuse, she'd never hear the end of it. "Fine! I give in! But no tricks, you hear?"

He merely winked and offered, "I'll try to resist. Hop on." He patted the back of the broom, and she grudgingly complied.

In seconds, she was elevated scores of feet in the air. She let out a girlish scream that pierced the night sky, and he laughed wholeheartedly. It was the first time in a long time that she'd heard him laugh, let alone like that, and she could not deny that it made her glad. She'd missed him too much to bear. To show him this, she tightened her grip around his abdomen and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I love you."

"What did you say?" Ron shouted back. With the way he yelled, you'd think they were flying adjacent to a jet plane.

"I said I love you!" she screamed, and then laughed.

"What?" Now he was just teasing her.

"Oh, you prat, do I have to say it again?"

"No," he responded, and kissed her cheek. "Got it the first time. Just wanted to see how long you'd go without getting your knickers in a twist. Apparently, I'm only worth two times!"

"Oh, screw you."

"Not while we're flying! Maybe we can make a pit stop on the way, if you're that eager." She slapped him playfully. "I love you too." There was the Ron she knew.

She sighed as they soared through the endless diamond-studded abyss. Flying wasn't all that bad once you got used to it. And it certainly helped that Ron was an excellent flyer. Perhaps not as good as Harry, although Hermione had never been one to judge, but good nonetheless.

Perhaps not as good as Draco.

No, she would have to stop thinking about him if she wanted to enjoy her evening with her future husband. _Your future husband!_ she repeated in her mind. _Forever, 'til death do you part. Your husband. Can't you think loyally for one moment? You're no whore._

But it was a heavy thought. Marriage. What did it mean? She loved Ronald Weasley with all her heart. She wouldn't know what to do without him. But was securing him by means of marriage necessarily right?

No, she wasn't securing him through marriage. She loved him, and it was a covenant of love alone. Not convenience. Not a means of making certain he never left her.

Right?

Yes. She desired more than companionship. Ron would give her that, too.

But if she desired more than companionship, then why wasn't she with Draco? He certainly knew what made her tick. He was smooth. Sexy. Experienced, even.

She shook her head to get the thoughts out of her mind, and to slight avail. But not much. She merely found herself reminiscing upon the time she lost her virginity to Ron.

It all happened rather awkwardly. They'd been out of Hogwarts for two years, helping Harry locate the final horcruxes. The night before they were set to embark on the search for the third was a solemn one. The dangers were evident. McGonagall had helped Hermione complete the research required, and she had sufficient reason to believe there was one just off the shores of Edinburgh. None of them had apparated that far, let alone dealt with the obstacles at hand. They suspected Voldemort was on their tail, and knew he–it–would do anything in its ability, which was vast, indeed, to prevent their success, and kill them in the process. Voldemort's life was on the line, now. It was no longer a matter of fruitless attempts at Harry's. Ron and Hermione were prepared to lay down theirs for the cause, and so, the night wind howled as they sat in courageous fear, in deadly apprehension of what was to come.

Ron cut through the blackness of the room and the sky with his voice. He and Hermione were huddled together, clinging for life in vain practice on a sofa in the burrow, the room black as pitch. His voice, if it were to have some sort of aura, would only have resonated a light slightly brighter than that of the room itself. He was scared, and she could discern this without even noticing the nearly undetectable quiver in his voice. But then, she was scared, too.

"Hermione," he'd propositioned. "If... if we, you know..." A gulp. "If we–"

"Die?" Hermione looked at him with pleading eyes he could barely recognise in the dark.

He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Ron," she began, "If you want to, I mean, I suppose–" she cut herself off by kissing him slowly at first, followed by a series of heated pecks.

"Yeah," Ron breathed, pulling his shirt off, his lips still glued to hers. He kissed her neck and fumbled with her robes. Seconds turned to hours as he blundered her cloak in an awkward attempt to pull it over her shoulders.

"Here," she offered, and finished removing it herself. He hastily unzipped his trousers as she undid her bra to save him the humiliation. Soon they were both naked, and she lowered herself onto the couch, arms folded on her chest out of modesty.

At first he showed a deep unease in touching her. He traversed her shoulders with his fingers and began to breathe more heavily.

"You're sure?"

She nodded her head. At this, he grunted and entered her slowly, but then lost himself and quickened his thrust. She inhaled sharply and whimpered in pain. The puzzled look on his face told her he needed reassurance. "It's okay, Ron," she breathed. He nodded his head, embarrassed, and continued. With steady motions, he penetrated her, their bodies clasped together by the pained arch of her back and the convex curve of his. She exhaled a piercing whimper that scared him into submission, and within a few moments, he lay on her body, head on her breast as she stroked his hair and whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

"Was it... was it okay for you?" he asked timidly.

"It was wonderful, because I love you," she whispered, and kissed the crown of his head.

"Oh, oh my–you're bleeding, Hermione!"

"Oh, don't worry, that's normal," she explained. "I'll go fetch a towel." And she rose from the cushions to search for something to help them clean up, all the while musing on what they'd done, and what they were preparing to do.

They landed in the street in front of a quaint pub. There were lights strung outside through canopies, under which people laughed boisterously with their drinks and meals. A sign on the entrance to the indoor dining room read, "Madame Culottes'."

Ron was positively beaming. He seemed immeasurably proud of himself. "Harry and I found this place a while back, and I'm telling you, you have never tasted fish until you've been here." He ushered her to the Maitre d', who, by the looks of it, was the reason Harry and he had come here in the first place. She was a rather scantily-clad, petite woman, whose dark locks cascaded over her bare shoulders in a manner that made Hermione seethe with jealousy. Ron stared dumbly at her chest, completely unaware of the daggers Hermione shot at him.

"Table for _two_," Hermione snapped, glaring at Ron, who seemed to have forgotten that asking for a seat was common restaurant protocol.

The girl shot her a smug smile that seemed to scream, "I'll take my bloody time so long as I've got your boyfriend's eyes glued to my curves." But what she actually said was, "Inside or outside?" in a high-pitched, veela-like voice. Hermione even thought she heard the woman _giggle_.

For the first time since they'd arrived, Ron looked at Hermione. "Whatever you want, love." Hermione stared at the outside, and thought it might be romantic to eat under the trees.

"Oustide," Hermione said, quite directly, to the girl.

"Sure thing, right this way," she sang. Hermione caught a suggestive glance she shot Ron, and discretely hexed a good portion of her hair to fall out. Ron gasped, but the Maitre d' didn't seem to notice.

Upon arriving at their table, he'd held her chair aside for her. Such a gesture made her glow, and sent blood to her cheeks. She laughed at the way he said, "M'lady."

"I highly recommend the scallops. But choose the most expensive thing you can find on the menu; this is your night."

"How romantic," she drawled sarcastically.

"I try," he offered, clearly content with himself.

"Oh, you!" she shrieked. "Well, I really do enjoy the decor. I never knew my boyfriend had such good taste, I must say."

"He doesn't. His best mate, on the other hand, does."

"Oh, but of course."

After they'd placed their orders, though, Ron ended the small-talk. "You'll never know the pain I felt after Fred and," he gulped. "After the incident." She nodded her head and stared into her lap. "And it still hurts, you know? They were my brothers, for Merlin's sake. They still are. But," his voice wavered, and then he calmed himself. "But I want you to know that I'll never leave you again. From now on, I only want to make you happy. Mum gave me the idea, but I said I'd talk to you about it. She wants to move the weddings up."

"The weddings?" Hermione questioned.

"Well, yeah, I mean, now that Harry and Ginny are engaged as well."

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot," she lied. She was thinking of Draco, of what he'd say, of how she would hurt him with the news. Because she was going to marry Ron, no matter how much she loved–no, she didn't love him.

Did she?

Certainly a woman could love her betrothed and another man without incident. It was no great deal, she convinced herself. And the loves were so different, in any case. She knew the stable love should be resigned for marriage. The passionate love, well... The passionate love would have to end soon enough, and she should make the most of it whilst she could. At Ron's suggestion, however, the ending seemed to approach at a blood-curdling rate. Her heart dropped.

"How silly of me. What did your mum have in mind?"

"Oh, she said maybe a few weeks. It's soon, I know, but she's quite insistent, and I can see her purposes."

"Before the battle, right?"

"Yeah," he affirmed quietly.

"Ron," she said softly, gathering all the courage she had. "If I were to die out there, I want you to know that I love you, and will always love you."

"You're not going to. I won't allow it."

"But, realistically, Ron, if it were to happen–and it could–I want you to have all my things, and I want you to be the one to tell my parents, and–"

"Hermione, has anyone ever told you to stop making plans, and shut the bloody hell up?"

"You, a billion times over." She gave him a watery smile.

"You should take my advice every now and then!"

"Says the man who retook his apparation test five times."

"Hey," he prodded playfully. "I'll have you know that the test was completely unfair–"

"–And then used his ability anyway, and got on probation before he even had his license."

"Well, if they'd given me my license in the first place, maybe I wouldn't have had to apparate without it!"

"Your sense of logic just astounds me."

"I know it does, pet," he agreed, and kissed her nose.

The night went accordingly, and Hermione did have the best fish she'd ever tasted–a revelation for which Ron prodded endlessly, and she finally submitted. It reminded her of her childhood that had since been lost. Now she was an adult, and she could go to dinner with a man she loved well and knew better, but who remained an enigma to her all the same. And adult life was so much about enigmas, because nothing was ever organised into neat little packages anymore. Or perhaps they never were, but childish mentalities allowed for simpler explanations. She could no longer find those compact answers, and the truth struck her with remembrance.

She recalled when she was a young child, her father would take her on his boat–it was a small thing–and teach her muggle science about the environments they traversed. "Look," he'd say into the salty mist every few minutes, the steady humming of the engine vibrating their feet. "Over there–that is called an estuary." And she'd argue with him, because she'd read it to be a delta, or a strait, or an island, because it was composed of silt and whatever else, and he'd laugh softly as she rambled on, and wait for her to admit he was right all along–something she abhorred to no end. But she did it, because the answer was simple: admitting her wrongs was the right thing to do, so there was no question that she would do it. It is that way children can simplify matters, or perhaps, adults merely jumble them up. It wasn't as easy now for her to distinguish what was right from what was wrong. Even upon deciding, it was nearly impossible for her to do the right things all of the time, and she mused on this, staring at the glow on the visage of the only one she'd hurt in the process besides herself.

When they rode home, slicing that night sky, he did not–or could not–notice the burden on her mind. That he did not was that which upset her the most. He was not receptive, or even considerate. He was merely a boy in a man's body, awkwardly stumbling about like a child in clothing four sizes too big. Perhaps it was for the better–he'd never question her morality or infidelity. He'd never question her commitment, and he'd surely never question her affection.

They arrived at Grimmauld Place, but Ron had no intention of going inside. At Hermione's attempt, he grasped her hand and pulled her to the field behind the house.

"Sit," he commanded.

"What? I–"

"Oh, come on, can you just trust me for once?"

She sighed heavily and obeyed. The ground did not welcome her with its cold, misty blades of grass flirting with–or, rather, warning–her skin and robes. She lowered her hands to balance herself and felt an unpleasant surprise of mud under her fingers. Like she had touched a hot flame, she pulled her hand back to examine the damage, but eventually shook her head and rammed it back into the earth. She would humour him, so long as it only required a few moments of her time.

He plopped down right next to her, and soon his arm found her shoulders.

"Look up," he instructed, and she did.

It was his meager attempt at romance. Apparently, something about viewing the stars from the ground had more of an appeal to him than watching them from hundreds of feet in the air on a broom. They were stars. She'd seen them before. She wished men would get some sort of a clue and remember that they were expecting huge balls of burning gas millions of miles away to be somehow sensual. Somehow.

"They're beautiful." It wasn't a lie; they were. Even overrated natural phenomenons could be beautiful. And if it would pacify him so she could go inside and clean up, she would utter a billion untrue words in the utmost sincerity.

"Not as beautiful as you."

"Ron!" She rolled her eyes in the dark. "Could you have chosen a more trite response?"

"Er... I..."

"Oh." Suddenly she became very self-conscious. "No, I mean, it's just that... I mean, that's what guys always say. And you know I don't need compliments from you, silly." She offered him the best smile she could conjure, but when it failed to raise his spirits, she grasped his face in her hands and kissed him gently.

At first, he was reluctant to receive the kiss–as a rule, Ron Weasley was always one to hold a grudge–but then he took it as a go-ahead to undress her in that field. Something about him groping her that way made her uncomfortable, but she brushed it off as the ground being cold and wet. It soon became too much to handle, and she pushed him away lightly.

"Ron," she breathed between kisses. "Ron, I can't. Not tonight."

He gave her a puzzled look she could discern through his sweaty brow and flushed cheeks. "But why?"

"I... er..." and then Hermione did what any woman would do. She used her monthly as an excuse.

Ron clearly did not want her to expatiate on that, and said "oh" a few times, embarrassed, before fixing his collar and tucking his shirt into his trousers. They walked back to the mansion hand in hand, saying nothing.

Ron was quick to undress and find his place in bed.

He was half-asleep when she called out to him. "Ron, I'm going to have a shower."

"Mmmngh."

She closed the door quietly as she could and tip-toed down the hall until she came upon a green and silver pane. Apparently, Draco had been experimenting with charms again. He probably did it to ensure nobody had forgotten, to save his supposed dignity in a house crawling with Gryffindors, as he would put it.

She moved her hand to the doorknob but withdrew it cautiously. She raised a flat palm against the door and lay her head atop it, thinking. If there were any time to start anew, it would be now. If she could just find the will to return to Ron's bed–_her_ bed–everything could be negated. Because when Ron was in his slump, it didn't count, right? Because he wasn't really himself, and she couldn't be disloyal to him if he wasn't really there. And he wasn't.

But he was now. He was real, he was back, he was himself, and anything she could do now would shame her clean slate–her clean slate that wasn't really clean at all, her clean slate that she had fabricated for her own sanity. Because she didn't have a clean slate, not since the day she was born. She was born in sin just as any other woman or man and she struggled and toiled through the muck even until now. Wrong was wrong, no matter who you wronged, no matter if there was none to wrong in the first place. Wrong was wrong when the faint voice in the back of your head shook its own, and sighed in disappointment; wrong was wrong when she could feel the guilt approaching.

So what the hell if she added another sin to the list longer than her sixth-year Arithmancy N.E.W.T. essay?

Evidently, she didn't have a choice.

She stumbled over Draco when he opened the door, but he caught her effortlessly. "Looking for something?"

"I thought I would take a stroll," she elucidated, regaining her composure.

He eyed his watch. "At one in the morning? That's some stroll." He looked at her thoughtfully before donning a wicked grin. "Must've been awfully tired to take such a long rest against my door."

She narrowed her eyes. "You knew?"

"What do you think my wards are for?" She stared at him blankly. He didn't miss a beat. "By the way, do you approve of the colors? I'll admit they're a bit flashy for my tastes. But aesthetics isn't really the purpose they serve, I suppose."

"Those are charms, Draco."

"So I was waiting for you. I was unaware that exaggerating was a crime; sue me. Can't a man maintain some level of tact in his house?"

"You could have told me the truth tactfully, too, you know. I would have been flattered. And this is not your house."

He looked away from her, his hair flipping with his face's movement. "How was your rendez-vous?" His voice was cold as his eyes.

"I... It was, uh..." She wracked her mind for the words. "Oh, Draco."

He put a finger to her lips and kissed her hungrily. "That good, huh?" he managed to slip in between furious kisses. "Mmmngh," she agreed, and he reached up her skirt. He shot her a smug grin when he discovered she wasn't wearing panties, and she returned a knowing stare. She didn't have all that much time to recuperate; Hermione gasped when one finger entered her, then two, thrusting sharply inward. At this, she kissed him harder, pulling down her stockings just in time as he laid her on his bed. Between the two of them, before they put their wands aside, they managed to hex all their clothing off.

"Tell me you want me," Draco whispered into her ear before biting it. He then lowered his mouth to her breast and teased her with his kisses.

"I want you," she breathed, and in a heated frenzy, he penetrated her. He grasped her leg as she wrapped it around the small of his back, and she clawed at his shoulders as he kissed her violently. She couldn't hear what he'd whispered into her ear above her moans, but when he licked her neck, she got the message. As soon as she felt her heart rate quicken, she instructed him with a simple word–"harder"–and he complied. A few grunts and thrusts later, she was there, this time screaming his name without regard for who in the house would hear her. As though he were holding out all the while, he came moments later, his flushed face slanted toward the ceiling with an expression of utter pleasure, and hers smiling at him calmly.

She realized she'd had no choice to begin with as they lay panting beside one another.

"You're not really going to go through with it, are you?"

"If you're asking whether I'm going to marry Ron, the answer is yes."

He snorted through forced laughter. "Well, good luck with that."

"Oh, come off it, you're just jealous."

His eyes narrowed. "Of course I'm jealous. Doesn't mean I'm wrong." Hermione eyed him sadly. "Which I'm not."

"You're never wrong, are you?" she asked sardonically.

"Never."

"You know, we both think we're always right. That means we can never disagree."

"But we do."

"Ah, so one of us isn't always right."

"Then it's you, because I'm always right, and I say you're not always right, and since I'm always right, you're wrong."

"You are truly insufferable, do you know that?" she sighed deeply and they lay in a comfortable silence.

It was a silence he quickly broke. "I'm getting restless, Hermione. I didn't switch over to be a burden. I want to fight," he said quite bluntly, and her heart sank.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Remus, may I have a word?"

Lupin looked up from his paper, his eyes the same color as dusky sky. He gave her a half-hearted, dog-like smile that seemed a bit empty. "Anything, my dear."

"It's about Malfoy," she conceded, carefully manoeuvering his last name.

"Oh?" Lupin raised an eyebrow knowingly.

"He wants to fight. He's getting impatient, really. But that's not it. I think he would be of use. He's ready."

"Hermione." Lupin frowned and administered a silencing charm on the surrounding doorways. "Hermione it is important not to mix your emotions with war tactics. You know that."

"What? Of course I know that. What has that got to do with sending Dr–Malfoy to fight?"

Lupin smiled sadly at her for the second time. "Oh I think it has everything to do with sending _Draco _to fight."

"What are you saying?" she asked incredulously.

"Hermione, I've lived quite a long time. I also happen to be a werewolf. With a combination of my heightened experience and sense of smell, I'm surprised I didn't figure it out sooner."

"I don't understand," Hermione said flatly, a feeling of uneasiness churning in her stomach.

"If you don't want anyone else to find out about you and Mr Malfoy–and I'm assuming you don't–I would end it now, or at least watch the manner in which you stare at him when he passes. Sometimes, I fear, I can smell him on your skin. I'm fairly certain I'm the only one, but then again, Bill has been exhibiting more wolfish tendencies lately."

Hermione was crushed under the weight of his words. "Remus," Hermione begged, eyes pleading, "keep the secret."

"What else can I do?" he asked, his own despondent eyes staring at a point seemingly beyond her face.

"I love Ron. You know I do."

"Of course you do, dear," he affirmed distantly.

She nodded her head and hurried out.

"Hermione." She turned around briskly. "Please end it. For everyone's sake."


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Hey guys, sorry for the slow update. I've been... er... _quite _busy. Anyhow, here the plot thickens even more. Hope you approve. I haven't really much else to say, other than I'll be on vacation (New York!) for the next week or so, and might not have time to write. My most heartfelt apologies.

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He nudged her lightly to wake her from her slumber, and she groaned.

"What is it?"

He pulled a coat over his shoulders and forced his foot into a boot, then stared at her for a moment, pensively. "Put something on, for god's sake." A tee-shirt attacked her face. "And get out. We're going for the giants."

"What? Nobody ever–I wasn't told of a mission, I don't even know what I was supposed to prepare, or when we're leaving, I..." Her voice trailed off when she realised he wasn't paying any attention.

She realised wrong. "That's because," he mumbled through gritted teeth, fumbling with his buttons, "you are not coming."

"I... what?"

"You're a sharp woman, Hermione, I know you understood me the first time."

Her eyes narrowed as she slipped on a pair of satin panties. "Who's going?"

He shot her another questioning look. "Yes, he's going. I got you up early so he wouldn't suspect... well, he's too much of a wanker to get up on time anyway, even when it's for something as bloody important as this."

She ignored his blatant jab at her fiancé. "Harry, too?"

"Not Harry," he grunted, finishing the last button, exasperated.

"I thought Hagrid and Grawp had managed to convince a few to side with us."

"And we will use those few to our advantage. The others we must kill now," he expatiated, as though speaking to a toddler, "because giants, my dear, are mean and scary when they don't like you very much."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You need me."

"Yes, I need you to get the fuck over to your sodding boyfriend's bedroom so you don't miss him on his way out, and then I need you to stay here and try not to do anything stupid."

"Don't speak to me that way," she mumbled, and he paused. A grimace replaced his sarcastic expression, and a second later, he grasped her stiff shoulders in his hands and kissed her fiercely.

"Hermione, Hermione," he breathed, and with that, he was gone. She heeded his advice and made her way to her bedroom, where she found Ron sleeping soundly, as Draco had predicted.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She sat with Ginny and Luna at the kitchen table in a stark silence. It spoke volumes in itself; even Luna was silent, for she had no insensitive statistics to spew, or perhaps she had grown weary of them and recognised the solemnity of the occasion. Molly Weasley had steeped tea for the three women, but none drank. She interrupted the deafening quiet with her timid warmth.

"Girls, you know you ought to drink some." Hermione thought for a moment of what she would really like to drink right then, and she could assure her future mother-in-law that it would not be brewed in that kitchen. "Come on, now. Chipper up. You're all white as sheets."

Ginny and Luna offered Mrs. Weasley the obligatory smile, and took reluctant sips of tea in order to pacify the woman. Hermione didn't bother with such formalities.

"I," she began, standing from the table abruptly. "I must excuse myself," she elucidated, not a hint of rouge flushing her cheeks to suggest embarrassment.

"Hermione, dear," Mrs. Weasley began, but her call was useless and her voice resonated in empty halls for only a short time.

She rushed through the corridors, mind racing. If she lost the most important men in her life this night, it would be Lupin's cruelest punishment. Regardless, it was still Lupin's punishment. He fought her emotions–her burden–with a double-edged sword. Sure, he'd give Draco what he wanted, but at a dire expense–_her _dire expense. Sly Remus. Sneaky Remus. He probably thought he was doing her a favor. Or at least he was proud of his trickery–how could he not be? Draco would lash out in anger if Ron so much as mildly offended him, and crush her life with his words. His undoubtedly venomous words. And Ron would suspect anything or completely foil the mission. Oh yeah, Remus was hot stuff. How _clever _of him.

...But even she could deny it to be in his nature. Perhaps he did not have such malicious ulterior motives. It was unlike him; he hadn't even been angry over it. Although, when had Remus ever acted in anger?

But most importantly, why wasn't she there? Waiting was agonising. She couldn't imagine what Harry would be feeling. If they hadn't sent her–and she would surely have been an asset to the mission–she couldn't fathom why they hadn't sent him, other than for his protection. Was it the same case for her? Did she need protection, or was she just not needed? Certainly she was more disposable than Ron or Draco.

She had to find Harry. It wasn't so much of a matter of finding him as it was ascending the stairwell to his room; he didn't hide like Draco did. He was never such a coward. She stood outside his doorway, staring solemnly in at his sunken body, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, before she spoke.

"Haven't you got anything to say about it?" she asked dubiously.

He looked up at her with tired eyes. "No. I won't, at least. I have got something to say about it, but I won't. I don't agree, but I understand; some things are better left understood than argued, if it means pacifying those you love because there are more important things to contest."

She sat down at the foot of the bed beside him. "I know that this," she stuttered. "I know how much this means to you."

He bowed his head. "I just wish I could help them, somehow. Be there for them. I think they need me, but they also need me to stay here. I am not going to make the same mistake Sirius–" his voice cracked. "I won't make the same mistakes Sirius did," he repeated, seemingly resolute.

She looked off to the distance, considering the man before her now who had seemed so much younger only months before. "I can't understand why they didn't send me."

"Ron," Harry grunted simply.

She didn't respond. She'd nearly forgotten, in her remembrance that it was Draco's, that it was Ron's first time back on the job as well, and after a considerable suspension.

"He wouldn't be–" Harry began, but, in order to maintain his composure, he cut himself off. She understood then. Harry had been in the same situation only weeks before. The situation of feeling, whether it truly be there or not, a sense of duty to the woman he loved. Such a burden always detracted from the mission at hand. Ron wouldn't have been able to handle it.

Draco wouldn't have been able to handle it.

And that was when she realised that he loved her.

"I understand now," she said quietly, and he looked at her as if he were wondering whether she truly did.

After a short silence, she spoke again. "So what do we do now?"

He shrugged.

"Would you like something to drink? Molly has a kettle on downstairs."

He looked up at her hopefully. "Er, yeah, that'd be nice. I mean, if you don't mind, and all. I'd go down, but..."

"No, no, it's fine. I promise."

"We should talk, anyhow."

Hermione nodded her head in agreement.

She made her own tea in a different room. She couldn't face the woman in the kitchen.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They taught first years the reasons for conquest. God, gold, and glory, they said–"they" being the general authority, and "God" being a distant figment of the wizarding imagination. They never said it was for justice, although perhaps that would fall into the category of glory. And wasn't that ironic? That the only purpose of justice and truth was glory, and without that reward it was all futile? There was no point to being right without reaping any recognition. Voldemort may as well stroll on in and take over.

He wasn't doing it for justice. Or glory, or god, and he certainly didn't believe in god–what muggle rubbish. But there was a reason, and it lay in his duty to himself. His quest to prove his whole misguided life somehow worthy. But what was in that but an old aristocratic habit? A sense of self-righteousness learned by rote. Yeah, you could never change the son of a death eater, that's what they always said. But this time, "they" constituted evil. And "they" were wrong. He had changed. Just because he had less than philanthropic motivations didn't mean he hadn't changed as a whole. He could recognise it in himself, and that meant it was drastic, for people never saw themselves change; they merely reflected afterward. First he'd been brooding, arrogant, outspoken and prejudiced. A real arse, so to speak. Then he'd been rocked and broken, shattered and confused, still prejudiced and begrudging as ever. Then he grew weary, and now, now he had something for which to live. He had her. It was unlikely, but he had her and it wasn't as horrific as he'd imagined–or had tried not to imagine–it to be in grade school.

He remembered a time not so unlike this, shortly after Dumbledore's death. They'd been fugitives, refugees in their own country. Snape had been stern but understanding. It took Draco eight days to utter the words.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, staring blankly ahead, shoulders hunched, denoting his shame.

His mentor looked up from the makeshift stove over which he heated some sort of stew. They were staying at an inn just south of Worcester. He knew it was unsafe in Britain, and they'd have to leave, but Snape had insisted Draco rest for a night. It was non-negotiable, not sensitive or sympathetic. Just reasonable. An order. They could leave for Belgium in the morning, and they'd have to find a neutral house or more money. Neither side wanted the outcasts; they were betrayers to the order and the Death Eaters alike–finally something the two groups had in common. They were lucky to find an inn for this price, even if it meant cooking stew over a stone atop a fire pit.

"I have made a promise. I have kept my word thus far."

It was as simple as that. A cold response, bitter, but still absent of all grudges.

And then there was the time he found out what those grudges should have been.

"Why are you so insistent I join the order? Even if they would have me–if they're the benevolent mudblood-lovers you make them out to be–I, unlike some of us, have a family tradition–protocol, if you will–to uphold, and I would never throw that away for the likes of you," he'd spat.

"Don't be stupid, boy. Your family wouldn't have you, either. You are nothing to them. You've failed," Snape sneered.

He pretended as though his mentor's words hadn't stung. "It isn't like the Order would even have you back, old man."

His eyes hardened. "On the contrary," he drawled. "I happen to know for a fact I am quite welcome back."

"Fine, then!" he screamed. "If you're so high and mighty in the Order, then why," he kicked a bucket under a hold in the ceiling that had been collecting water–"are we still living in this shithole?"

"Because of you!" the older wizard raised his voice. "Do not be foolish. All this talk of 'mudbloods' and 'half-breeds,'" he shook his head. "I cannot bring you to headquarters with such instilled prejudice."

For a moment, Draco's mouth clenched firmly shut. Then he spoke softly. "But... my father..."

"Consider what it would cost your father to take you in."

Full of sound and fury, he never took the time to do so before it was too late. He would never forget the look of relieved anguish on his father's bruised and distorted face upon seeing him again. Surely Lord Voldemort had subjected him to the cruelest of tortures as payment for the sins of his flesh and blood. By that time, he and Severus had gone their separate ways. But he felt, for a rare time, that he was truly loved, not just appreciated or admired. Would any father take that sort of beating for his son? Perhaps, but for the fact that his father did, he was infinitely grateful, and thought he might even love the man who shared his eyes.

He had never realised what it cost Snape to help him. To try to change him. Not even when he saw the look on his face when he so curtly informed him he would return to his family.

"It seems I have failed you, Draco," he's said simply, and turned away so he would not have to watch the blond boy leave.

But in the end, it was he who failed Snape.

He wouldn't fail Hermione.

And so, fighting alongside Ron Weasley, he would take the first step in being... civil.

"Congratulations," he mumbled, nearly tripping over a fallen tree branch. Hagrid and Grawp, about fifty paces ahead, were leading their team of wizards–Ron, the Finnigans, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Bill and him–to the giants' lair past the forbidden forest.

At first, Ron seemed startled, but soon anger hardened his brow. "Yeah, well, some of us have feelings, Malfoy."

His own brow furrowed. "A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed, Weasel. I figure since we're living in the same house," _and fucking the same girl_, he thought, "we may as well make an attempt to be civil toward one another."

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but decided his silence would serve as a more appropriate retort.

Draco smirked at the irony of it all. The only reason he was congratulating his arch-nemesis was to pacify the woman to whom his enemy had proposed, because he was shagging her. And then, the man had the audacity to insult Draco's own capacity for emotion, when the order of his congratulations rested solely in his newfound love for the man's fiancee. It was as though he had some dirty little secret–and he did–and was alluding to it in such an obvious way that it would be far too subtle to notice. The fact that the recipient of the "clue" was about as deep as a puddle only made it funnier. Apparently, Ron thought the smirk planted on his face at the thought was directed toward him, instead of about him, and shot Draco a menacing glare.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She tripped over the last step and spilled some tea in front of a portrait. _Please don't go into conniptions, please don't go into conniptions, please don't–_

"And in _this _house! A mudblood spills tea!" an old woman of the Black line shrieked. "Well I suppose," she said more quietly, "a mudblood would be prone to spills... Nevertheless! In MY house! How dare she? And then continue on her merry way without mopping it up, which she could probably do with her own hair! _WHY IS THERE A MUDBLOOD IN MY HOUSE?_"

She walked past as quickly as she could without spilling any more tea. She would consider lashing out–setting the woman in her place–but now was not the time.

"_DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME, YOU MUDBLOOD WHORE!"_

Her stomach flipped. _Oh god, please tell me she hasn't seen..._

"Elladora!" came Mrs Weasley's screech from the kitchen, and the portrait's mouth clamped tightly shut. She raised an approving eyebrow, not to be mistaken as a smirk. The woman had ears like a cat. It helped that her offender was giving her loudest, she supposed.

She shut the door firmly behind her to see Harry scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "I... er... I meant to have that removed. Nice family, eh?"

"The nicest," Hermione droned sarcastically, accompanying her comment with one of her famous eye-rolls.

"So."

"So."

They smiled awkwardly at one another. It seemed like it had been a lifetime since the last time they spoke.

"What have you been up to lately?" He sipped his tea.

"Oh, you know."

"No, I don't, or I wouldn't have asked." He gave her one of his stupid grins.

"Strangest thing, I've been spending a lot of time with Malfoy, actually," she said casually.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably at this. "Oh?"

"Yes, he's not half-bad anymore. Then again, I suppose we've all grown up a bit."

"I, myself, had a conversation with him the other day. I was in such a hurry to leave that I'd forgotten my wand, of all things. He caught me just in time. I was afraid he'd misinterpreted my look of surprise–and trust me, it was there. I mean, come on, the first ten years of my life he's ready to kill me at any chance, and then suddenly we're living in the same house and he reminds me to take my wand? I actually needed it, too, even though I was only going down to Hogsmeade for a... business meeting."

"Harry, you should really be more careful–"

"I _knew _I shouldn't have said that."

She shook her head and smiled. "No, no, it's fine. I'm glad to hear it. He could be useful to have around. I've been helping him out with his auror studies, and I swear he's almost better than I am. Better than Ron," she laughed, but the smile faded from Harry's face. "Well, I mean, er, better than Ron was at first, right, you see..."

"Nah, it's okay. Ron's had a tough time. We all know that." Harry looked away awkwardly, but he had a gift for rectifying these sorts of situations. "And I mean, with a teacher like you, who wouldn't be better than Ron? Sometimes I could swear Malfoy's exactly like you, anyway. Maybe you should have gone off with him when you had a chance," he joked.

"Yeah, sure. His subservient mudblood whore, right? Why on earth would I have chosen you guys? And marrying Ron? What was I thinking?" She held out her ring finger in mock disgust. The two friends had a laugh, and Harry took a sip of his tea, only to be snorted out two seconds later.

"Hey, you're not married yet; you can still back down, you know!" And the funniest thing of it all was that Harry kept laughing, while Hermione slowly stopped.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hagrid, still very far ahead of the group, walked more slowly now. He'd leaned over to speak with Grawp at least fifty times in the past ten minutes. Draco didn't need his exceedingly nervous glances back at the anxious wizards to discern that they were lost, or at least something was terribly wrong. Leave it to a giant to screw up finding his own family.

Finally he came to a dead stop. "Alastor!" he bellowed. The wizard rolled his eye and approached his clearly troubled peer. They spoke in hushed tones–the best whisper Hagrid could muster, which wasn't all that quiet anyway. While Hagrid maintained a semblance of shame, Moody looked genuinely worried. A minute or so passed before he addressed his team, whose members stood shifting their weights awkwardly.

"We have before us a serious problem. I'll be frank, the giants have gone missing. Judging by the smell, though–no offense," he nodded to Hagrid and Grawp, who both returned the gesture accordingly, "they're not too far from here. I want everybody to split up into teams and perform standard search duties." Text ran through Draco's brain. He could pinpoint the exact paragraph that discussed said search procedure. "I want the Finnigans together. Remus, you're with Tonks. Ron, go with Malfoy, and Bill, come with me. I want no horseplay–dark magic is afoot, and we can't afford careless mistakes. I want silent, specialised flares if you find something. No go!"

Ron kicked the dirt boyishly with his shoe and came to Draco's side, all the while muttering obscenities to himself. Draco led the way silently, not because he knew the area any better, but because he couldn't risk Ron catching a glimpse of his now-permanent smirk.

When enough was enough, he finally broke the ice with nervous banter. "They can't be too hard to miss, can they? How much do you suppose a giant weighs?"

He braced himself for one of Ron's fruitless attempts at insult, but it never came. Instead, the redhead whispered urgently, "They've found 'em."

"What? They found the giants? How do you know?"

"Specialised flares. You were probably at a cult meeting when we designed them," he explained scathingly, hurrying through dense forest.

Draco narrowed his eyes while running. They really should have told him about the flares before sending him out. What if he'd been alone? The thought horrified him. He never would have been able to recognise one of theirs, and he would have, in his haste, used a flare bright and loud enough to wake Grindelwald himself from the dead. It frightened him deeply to think of the other things he did not know. Merlin's balls, if it weren't for Weasley...

Was he actually grateful for the clumsy redhead's presence?

He didn't have much time to consider it, for they'd arrived at what appeared to be a giant's campsite They stared in awe: every one of them was dead.

The stench in the apparent giant graveyard rose to high heavens–they must have been hours gone. But who had reached the giants before them? The Order hadn't sent out another team, to their knowledge. Draco had heard of foreign resistance forces occasionally stepping on the Order's toes, but never this close to Hogwarts. Everyone knew that Hogwarts was Order territory. Everyone except–

Oh, fuck.

He turned a full 360 degrees, eyeing his surroundings. They all stood in the centre of what appeared to be an area of land carved out of the forest in a distinct circle.

"Well, if they're dead, does that mean we can go home now?" asked Ron dubiously. Nobody answered.

A few seconds of silence passed as Draco surveyed the surroundings further, as if validating his assumption. Suddenly, he said quite calmly, "It's a trap." He looked to his right and to his left. "Move out, now, it's a set-up. Everybody out!"

A few Aurors looked at him questioningly. Oh, damn it all to hell, they couldn't suspect him now. Not in this situation, not now. But then, he thought, this would be the ideal situation in which to suspect him. He urged them on with his eyes, and when he began to run, most of them followed. But the area was too large, and he barely made it to the outskirts of the burial ground when he found himself staring face-to-face with Goyle Sr.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here," he said, licking his pale, cracked lips, as two Death Eaters arose from the darkness behind him. At first, Draco looked behind nervously for his team. They were surrounded on all fronts. He turned back to face Goyle, seething with anger.

"It's the Malfoy son, the fuckin' blood-traitor," he laughed to his cohorts. Then he addressed Draco directly. "Oh, Draco, if your father could see you now," he mocked, yellow teeth bared and glistening in the moonlight.

Draco gritted his own teeth and stared hard at the man. Here was a lowly creature–nothing of the Malfoy line or of a similar hereditary calibre–erring on condescension to _him_, when _he _was the one who'd found truth because his brain, through exquisite breeding, was not filled with sawdust.

How _dare _he?

_Where is my father?_

"What's your move, Goyle?" he snarled. "Gentleman's courtesy, of course. Give me your best shot, old man, so you'll have something to be remembered by after I hex you into oblivion."

The elder Goyle's greasy smile dripped from his face into a sour grimace. "You'd," he stuttered, "you'd best show some respect, boy."

He gave his best aristocratic smirk. "I'm a Malfoy. You should be grovelling at my feet."

"Malfoy no more, _traitor_."

"You want respect?" Draco raised his eyebrow. "I'll show you some respect, you gaffer. _Expelliarmus!_" A look of utter surprise and puzzlement struck Goyle Sr's visage when he realised it was not he whom Draco had disarmed, but the wizards behind him. His confusion gave Draco a few extra seconds to hex him, as well. _"Locomotor Mortis!"_ Goyle fell to the ground, legs locked. _Dolt_, Draco thought, and he picked up one of the other wizard's wands and pointed it, along with his, at each wizard. With a quick _Petrificus Totalus, _he'd completely frozen the wizard who was crawling demurely toward his own wand and his disarmed friend simultaneously.

"Too cowardly to kill me?" Goyle screamed after him as he ran away. _"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"_ He ducked under two shots of green light, both of which landed squarely in the chest of a giant._ "Avada–" _Goyle's aimless curses were ended when Draco shot a silent "Scourgify" charm over his shoulders, filling the man's mouth with soap. _Foul language only garners one punishment_, he thought, amused, before focussing his mind on Ron's trials.

Ron had somehow managed to incapacitate four wizards already, much to Draco's surprise. "Need help?" he grunted, arriving at his side.

"Improvise," Ron instructed breathlessly, before stupefying a woman Draco recognised to be Alecto Carrows. He'd seen her at one of his father's galas with her brother whom he'd identified as quite dull-headed.

_Her brother!_ Draco whipped around to find him breathing down his back. _"Serpensortia!"_ He smiled to himself as his characteristic snake rose from his wand all too tactfully and, with a measure of agility, poisoned his potential attacker.

A few more silent curses and the two were alone. Ron offered him a watery smile as if to say, well done, mate. For the first time in a while, he felt accepted. But with acceptance came confusion: should he feel glad to be accepted? Was he getting too complacent? Or did it mean he had finally submitted to cowardice?

He had not a great deal of time to think. The others were fighting off the most dangerous of the bunch: Dolohov, Rudolphus Lestrange, Macnair, Nott, and Avery, whom Voldemort had apparently freed from Azkaban. _Where is my father? _Spells were shot across the field, creating an incredible aura of colours in the night sky. It appeared that one of the Finnigans was injured, Fergus, was it? Draco couldn't recall. But when he and Ron approached victorious, there were shouts between the Death Eaters amidst their curses.

"Is that them?"

"Yes, dammit! Why are they without the Potter boy?"

"They're without Potter?"

"They're without Potter!"

"Pull out! Pull out! This wasn't part of the plan!"

And in seconds, the remaining Death Eaters disapparated.

The stench of death was too much for him to handle, and Draco fell to his knees and vomited in the grass. When he stood up, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, he found a team of Aurors gathered around him.

Hagrid, holding his arm for support, said earnestly, "C'mon, m'boy, tha' was a good thing back there."

He looked at the giant questioningly, but did not inquire as to his meaning, for it was clear he was deeply moved by the deaths of his friends, judging by the tear stains on his cheeks.

A voice came from behind him. "Thanks," Ron said sheepishly, toes pointed inwards. "For the warning, I mean."

Draco nodded. He still couldn't wrap his mind around Ron's auror abilities.

As it turned out, Finnigan's injury hadn't been severe, and he said he would be able to apparate back to 12 Grimmauld Place. The wizards walked grimly back to their origin and returned to the unmarked house, to the open arms of women worried sick.

Draco heard their screeches and opted not to enter immediately. He didn't think he could bear to see Hermione falling all over Ron, not after all he'd been through that night. He slumped against the outer wall of the house, as mediwitches entered the doors to check the team for wounds. There was a sonorous raucous as the men–and Tonks–described what they had experienced. Shrieks from the women, grunts from their lovers, warm embraces–it was mostly the Weasley mother–disgusted him. Did nobody recall his absence? He decided that it would be best for him to enter unnoticed anyway, due to the chill of the night air against his cheeks, and the obvious fact that he was not wanted.

She saw him duck under the doorway and her heart leapt. She was embracing Ron tightly, exuberant that he'd returned–and unharmed, at that! All the knots in her stomach had untied when she saw him walk through the door, and for the first time in a long time, she'd been genuinely grateful. Grateful for everything he'd given her, including his life. She'd jumped into his arms and showered him with kisses, but now they simply embraced, and with her head over his shoulder, a tear trickling down her cheek, and she could see Draco.

Why now, of all times, did she yearn for him most? She stared at him intensely, and hoped that he would take it as her offer of comfort–for now. She wished he could understand that to congratulate him now, to show affection, would be more dangerous than the mission itself. But his sad glare in return crushed her hopes. He could be so goddamn pigheaded, sometimes. Whatever the case, there was the note. As he walked by, she reached out for his hand, and prayed nobody noticed their fond exchange.

The mere warmth from her body sent shivers down his spine, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Her touch, _oh her touch_, made him wish he were on the receiving end of her embrace. And why the fuck shouldn't he be? It wasn't right, none of it was right, not his cause, nor her ignorance. He looked at her sadly and she grabbed his hand, leaving a small piece of paper in place of her hand when she withdrew it secretively.

He waited until he'd reached his own room to open it.

_I was so worried for you._


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Sorry this one took so long to get out. I'll admit, it bored me a bit. It's sort of a precursor for what's going to happen next; I needed to get some tension out of the way. Anyway, I hope it fits your tastes. The tone sort of switches in the middle. It's something I worried about, but was generally uncertain regarding. I really, really, really need a beta for those sorts of things. I can't believe I have been so irresponsible as not to find one. But really, if you can help, please let me know. Email, livejournal, review, message, whatever. I'll tempt you with this (if you care): I have a huuuuuge question about an idea I have for the ending. I have the last chapter written, but it's the means by which I'm getting there that I'm really confused about. At first I was certain on what would happen (how the war would end, how their affair would or would not end, and who would die and who would survive in the process), but now I'm questioning, and I could REALLY use a second opinion. Basically, I'll give away the ending if you help me out. Or I won't, if you're adamant about not knowing. So just let me know.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Why are you still awake?"

"The better question is, I believe," she said slowly, walking toward him with the tip of her wand glowing in the dark, "why are _you _still awake?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat in the library. "I've been thinking."

She nodded her head. "As have I."

"Who would have guessed?" His question was playful, but the tone of his voice distant as ever. He stared coldly into the darkness, refusing to look at her.

She sighed sadly. "Look, I could make tea if you'd–"

"What if I have to do it? What if I'm the one to do it?" He interrupted her absentmindedly.

"You want to make tea?" She asked dubiously. At his icy stare in the other direction, she inquired, "What if you're the one to do what?"

This time he looked her in the eye, but said nothing.

"Draco," she whispered, and pushed his hair away from his face, running her fingers through silken strands.

"Kill him. Kill my–my own–kill my own–" his voice faltered and he slammed his forehead into his palms, blond hair cascading over his newly roughened knuckles. Never missing a beat, she pulled his head to her breast and rocked forward.

"I came so close... I could have... Seeing them... What if next time..."

"Shh," she cooed, in an attempt to soothe his pain. She could have sworn that in the process, she told him that she loved him. She didn't need the details of the fight; that would come in time. He needed her now to just be there for him, to stroke his hair, to shush and calm him, to be with him when he was this vulnerable... she wondered where he'd been all these years. Hidden under some cool, nonchalant facade, undoubtedly. Only to come out of his shell when say, perhaps, forced to murder his headmaster. Or his father. Both men whom he hated and loved simultaneously, the men to whom he owed so much and repaid so wantonly. And yet, by appeasing one, he shamed the other. And in such irony, he shamed them both.

It took him a lifetime to fall asleep, but it wasn't too difficult in her arms, his haven. Once she was certain he wouldn't awaken, she rested his head on a sofa. He stirred a bit to groan, but that was all, and she left. There would always be someone else awake in the house, and judging by the demons in her mind, she knew it was about time to summon him. She found her way to the kitchen with a light at the end of her wand.

"Remus," her voice quivered. "How do I do it?"

He eyed her sadly. "Gently, my dear, you do it gently."

At that, she slumped against the door frame. Once she'd hit the ground, she whispered, "I was hoping you would tell me I didn't have to do it, not yet."

He walked over to where she sat, crumpled and dejected, and offered her a gnarled hand. "I could say that," he sighed calmly, leading her to the table, "but you know well what must be done."

She sat down, spirits crushed, at a chair in the kitchen, as though surrendering at that final battle. "He's changed, you know."

"I know."

"He proved himself–made himself useful."

"He was very brave."

"He needs me. I need to be there for him. He's vulnerable," she pled.

The werewolf sighed, remembering an old friend. "Yes, I am aware of this. But you are forgetting in your haste, Hermione, that you are not the only person to whom Mr Malfoy can turn in this house. He and Severus have always had an amiable relationship, and your former professor has been looking out for him ever since he got here."

"That's not... it's not..." Hermione exhaled suddenly, preceding dry sobs. "I love him, Remus, I love him. There, I said it. Is that what you wanted of me? A humiliating display of my emotions? To be right in your horrid, sanctimonious smugness? Is that what you wanted? Well, have it. Here it is. I'm in love with him. I love him. And I don't want to lose him." Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Shush," he whispered. Despite her biting remarks, his tone was amiable. "Hermione, I wanted nothing of you. I had no such sadistic intent. Do you understand that I want to see you happy?" He inquired mildly, charming tears from her cheeks. She attempted a smile, but the best she could do was to curl the ends of her lips slightly upward. "Of course you love him. You two complement each other in remarkable ways. But sometimes, Hermione, you can love someone so much that it's enough to let them go. And I should know," Lupin sighed. It seemed he'd managed to staunch the flow of her tears for a brief moment.

"When Sirius," he chuckled in an attempt to clear of his own eyes a fresh layer of tears, "when Sirius died, I was responsible for organising his things–his estate, I guess you could call it. I kept for myself a box–I assumed Harry wouldn't mind, for he would not have appreciated its significance," he waved his hand to demonstrate the futility of his comment. "The four of us–James, Sirius, Peter and I–charmed it to be our own sort of time capsule, hidden to one another and the rest of the world, but quite easily accessible by oneself with a simple personalised spell. I spent two years after James and Lily–and Peter, supposedly–died, trying to unlock their spells. It was all in one box, you see, but I could only see my own additions, and they theirs. So I spent that time trying to figure it out, trying to see if I could track down any sort of evidence suggesting what went so wrong..." Lupin closed his eyes. "It was very difficult for me after the fact. For the longest time, Hermione, I couldn't accept it. I didn't want to accept it; I didn't want to let go. The Sirius I knew, the Sirius we all knew... he would sooner have suffered an agonising death than betrayed James. James was always... well, James was very important to him. I never," he chuckled reminiscently, "I never was to him what James was to him. But that's quite different, I suppose."

Hermione nodded. "You were lovers, right? You and Sirius, I mean."

"Nothing gets past you, does it, Hermione?"

She smiled sheepishly.

He nodded. "We were, and so you see, I couldn't imagine a Sirius like the one I read about in the papers. Sure, if he were angry–which was often, mind you–he could do some damage. Quite a talented wizard, really. But that's a given, I suppose... anyhow, when it came to James pissing him off, he could do nothing more than punch him in the gut and demand an apology. And Harry, oh did he love that child. More than anything. I remember the first time we visited after his birth, Padfoot must've spent an hour just _staring _at the kid. Like he'd never seen an infant in his life," he sighed wistfully, but soon his thoughts returned to focus. "In any case, I needed something–some measure of closure–and that something was the box. I finally decrypted their spells, after months of perseverance. James' was undoubtedly littered with pictures of and notes from Lily. Peter had his family's coat of arms. Always interested in the glory of things, that one. But Sirius. His was the greatest surprise of all. In it was this note," he passed a tattered piece of paper from his robe pockets to Hermione.

_Moony,_

_You really think I'd keep my personal things here when I know it would take you all of thirty seconds to decode my locking charm? Think again._

_Yours,_

_Padfoot_

"And that's how I knew. The insufferable prat. It was nothing definitive, of course. Just a reminder. But I was no idealist; I knew people could change," he nodded at Hermione. "And after that night at the shrieking shack, we were together a few times. But it wasn't the same, do you understand? My comfort in my period of mourning for my friends was a pot of magically refilling coffee. His was a dementor's kiss. Yes, Hermione, people change. And sometimes, when society's taboos are too strong, letting go is the best thing, the only thing. But you'll always have this." He motioned to the note. "You'll always have the memories, you'll always have the proof that he's there, that he loves you, and that you did the right thing and are better off for it."

"I bet you were devastated after his death."

"I was lonely, I'll admit."

There was a pause, and Hermione sniffed.

"I want you to have the box. Use it wisely." He gave her a watery smile.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Snape threw the doors of his stateroom open and rushed inside, shoving his cloak at a wall too eager to catch it and hiding his left arm. He stopped dead in his tracks to see Draco Malfoy seated in the chair against the window.

"How long have you awaited my arrival?" he snarled, annoyed.

"Not more than an hour," Draco replied nonchalantly, taking a puff from his fag in hand.

"And, had I not returned, how long would you have waited in my quarters, useless to all the work that needs to be done for the Order?"

"I–"

"And put that out, you foolish boy. Assuming that you survive this war, do you wish to die an early death?" He then inhaled sharply and winced in pain. Draco had never seen his professor succumb to physical pressures.

He twisted the cigarette into the sole of his shoe. "Can I help?"

"Pass me that vial of unicorn blood by the window sill. And the phoenix feather."

Draco obliged and the older wizard began brewing some sort of antidote.

"Those at the Manor, undoubtedly, have received word of your recent epiphanies. You will be displeased–or pleased, perhaps–to know that you are not welcome there any longer. Unless you are a spy, but," the potions master paused and stared intensely at Draco, lips furled and quivering. Draco began to experience an acute head ache and the wizard continued, "I can see that is not the case. Among other things." Snape shot Draco a menacing glare.

"You know, asking permission to enter another person's mind is a staple of politeness."

"As is asking permission to enter another person's sleeping quarters," Snape drawled.

"I don't need a lecture on infidelity, Severus, if that's what you were implying."

"Admittedly, such matters of the heart are not my place, nor, I'll concede, are they my concern. I do not need to tell you that your life is your own, Draco."

The boy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "That's why I came to see you. To discuss certain... life choices, I mean."

The older wizard raised an eyebrow and added some sort of dust to his cauldron.

"I just," Draco exhaled, frustrated. "I'm sorry. For everything I... for all the trouble..." he bit his lip to regain his composure.

Snape did not look up. "In all due respect, Draco, I was not looking out for your welfare so much as my own. Nevertheless, I accept your apology."

There was a long silence between the two men before Draco spoke.

"Are you proud of me?"

Pause.

"What did you say?"

"I asked if you were proud of me. I need to know."

"I cannot say that I understand your intent, nor its implications, let alone advantages."

"I need to know," the blond repeated sternly.

"Some things, you'll learn, Draco," Snape said carefully, "are merited without recognition, and they do not require it." He exhaled, defeated. "But in short, I suppose that the answer to your question is yes."

"You're proud of me?" Draco's eyes lit up with a thousand fires.

"I do not believe I stuttered," Snape mocked. "But I do wonder the reason as to your inquiry."

Draco sighed and looked out the window. Snowflakes were falling against the light of the crescent moon, gently enshrouding the terrace. He thought of the last time his father told him he was proud of him. It was the day he received his dark mark.

"I just wanted a connection."

The man nodded silently. "Get me that scalpel by the dresser."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Let's go out to dinner."

"What?"

"Dinner. Noun. Evening meal. Let me take you out for it."

"Very funny."

"I don't seem to see the hilarity... granted, my sense of humour has always been more refined than yours, but I assumed I'd broken you in."

She laughed, as though the very idea of it was utterly absurd. "Even if we had the money–"

"I have the money. Mummy and Daddy still haven't wised up, and their account is still open to me."

"–Or the time–"

"I've got all night, babe."

"And even if there weren't a _war_ going on–"

"War? What war?"

"We couldn't. We just couldn't," she said incredulously.

"You did it with Weasley."

"That's different and you _know _it!"

"Listen, Hermione, I've disgraced my family name enough. It is proper for an honourable man such as myself to take his lover to dinner. So help me keep the family tradition."

"You've kept enough family traditions for one lifetime."

"Touche. You owe me for that. In the form of a dinner date."

"What if somebody saw us?"

"Thanks for your concern, love, but it's unnecessary, really. I wouldn't mind all that much being seen with you."

"Ha-ha, very funny. Your wit is sharp beyond compare," she drawled sarcastically.

"So that's a yes?"

She sighed, clearly frustrated. "Couldn't we invite some others to come along? What about Tonks and Lupin? They were enjoyable company last time." A lump formed in her throat when she considered double-dating with the only one who knew of their affair.

He shook his head vehemently. "No can do. I have a strictly mudblood dating policy. As in, no werewolves."

"You say it like it's a bad word."

"It is a bad word."

"You're a racist son-of-a-bitch."

"Yes, but I'm _your _racist son-of-a-bitch," he smiled.

She couldn't help but return it, and then quickly looked away. It wasn't that she didn't want to dine with him–by all means, she did, oh Merlin she did–but it was just that everything was terribly wrong with that picture. She didn't know where to start. She was to be married, people would see, people would talk, it was too dangerous, there wasn't time...

The smile disappeared from his face. "Hermione," he said quietly, and she shivered. He pulled her close and tangled his fingers in her hair, leaning in just enough to smell her shampoo. "Everything's so dark now, it would just make things so much easier if we could forget about it for one night."

He looked up at her and he could see in her eyes that she understood. "Well, alright," she conceded. "Let's just... be careful, okay?"

He nodded in agreement.

They managed to sneak out of 12 Grimmauld Place unnoticed, somehow. People were too busy these days, anyway, to concern themselves with the likes of how two young aurors were entertaining themselves at night, regardless of which ones they were or their respective pairings.

As soon as they had walked a good ways away from the house, their hands found each other and entwined frantically, as though the fate of the world depended on it. And in ways, it did. They said nothing; the only audible sounds heard came from the howling wind and their exhalations against the biting cold. Any other time, and they would have been thrilled at spring snow, but this year it didn't have the same romance as it would have for school children. This year, spring snow meant difficulty for missions, not extra chances to frolic with friends and lovers, time to kiss under the falling flakes and to notice just how cute she really looked with white flecks littered in her hair and on her eyelashes. Snow meant more injuries, worse injuries, higher death tolls, complications... thoughts at which he shuddered. _So much for Mum's annual Ice Ball_, he thought.

But there were more dire circumstances. His restlessness was quelled by his mission, but there was something he'd missed when he assumed that inactivity was his sole problem. Something that made him thirst for that connection he'd required of Snape.

And he was disappointed he couldn't articulate himself further to the man, but he assumed he got the picture. Severus was possibly the most receptive man he'd ever met. While other men–namely his father–had tendencies to buy the wrong things for their wives on Christmas and not recognise that "well, I suppose you can," really meant, "please don't," he imagined Severus understood people–and not just women–better than most.

Draco, conversely, never really comprehended Severus' plight. Rumour had it that he confessed his love for Harry's mum not so long before, but Draco couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. Snape had been something of an asexual entity to him. It wasn't just fatherly prowess, either–hell, he knew his own father was a sex god of sorts, and didn't even cringe at the thought. The beauty of his mother left nothing of his father's charisma to be imagined. But Snape, Snape was different. Snape had demons.

Could people with demons also have love?

And that's where he was impossibly stuck. For he had demons, foul demons, and yet, he found himself at the mercy of a young woman without. Or so he assumed. He could tell that he was corrupting her, giving her reasons to doubt, and yet, in his own selfish voracity, felt no qualms about continuing it. Was that so wrong? And was he truly corrupting her, or was he showing her a world she hadn't seen before?

The thought both sickened and intrigued him. Here he was, a blood-traitor, a coward, a good-for-nothing Malfoy son, arrogant and prejudiced, somehow wooing–and being wooed by–everything his father had taught him was impure and unworthy. And the thing was, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care about disgracing his father, because he didn't think it was disgracing him at all anymore. Took him close to twenty years to figure out that he was actually _liberating _the man. Perhaps, if his own son, his own heir, defied him, he would consider it. No other mind would be worth considering, if not Draco's. And yet, he doubted his change of heart would be considered. He doubted it very much.

But he wondered about Lucius. Everyone assumed him to be some self-righteous nut job, strict and cold and heartless and whatever else they said about his father behind closed doors. But though he hadn't been accustomed to open displays of affection from either of his parents, he knew they were not as emotionless and jaded as they appeared. No, that was a show they kept on to intimidate and to acclimate. To make those "filthy mudbloods" think twice about messing with them, and to court the alliances of powerful families like their own. But in truth, the Malfoys could be just as caring as any other parents. Yes, his mother was not exactly the brightest tool in the shed. Yes, she was vain and had only her husband's ideas of morality and what was socially acceptable, but she still loved him, he supposed. And though he rarely voiced it, he thought that Lucius did as well. Or used to. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if his parents were capable of unconditional love, and that's what scared him most.

Because he had no idea what he would do if he came face-to-face with his father in a duel. Whether or not Lucius loved him, Draco still loved Lucius.

He tried to tell this to Hermione, but couldn't spit out the words. She understood anyway, he was sure of it.

And he supposed that was why he loved her. And he supposed that was why he felt so empty without some sense of commitment. More than empty. Angry.

She could do better than Ronald Weasley, and she knew it. More importantly, _he _was better than Ronald Weasley, and he thought she ought to know it if she didn't already. So why was it taking so bloody long? She said over and over that she would still marry the bloke, but he had recently taken to understanding her affirmations as empty threats. Surely she couldn't forsake what they had. She cared too much. He cared too much. And by gods, he wasn't going to let her go.

But he needed her to make a decision. There is nothing like being the "other" man, the "other" woman. Always downcast in society, always at the least fault. Because while the rightful man or woman may be innocent and unaware, making them the easiest to be pitied, despite all their faults, they are raised on a pedestal. Poor, poor Ron. Never saw it coming, they would say. What a good man! And deserving.

They would have no idea of the way he treated Hermione, no idea of what drove her away, no idea of what she was missing and what was best for her. They would have no idea that he had no idea of the affair not because he was innocent or virtuous, but because he was ignorant and not concerned. And Draco would be the object of scorn, for he destroyed something beautiful. They would never guess that he'd been blinded by his own emotions, that he never necessarily intended to hurt, but had also been hurt more in the process: once by Hermione, a million times over by anyone who had anything to say about it. And none of what they would say would include the fact that perhaps the only problem was that it was just the wrong place, the wrong time, and in any other, Weasley would have been the one intruding.

No, despite her obvious choice, if this ever got out, it would be his fault.

Draco could foresee no way in which their situation could end well, and that frustrated him. He was used to getting what he wanted. He was used to having everything work out in the end.

He was used to his Daddy saving the day.

It was obvious those times were long lost as they approached the apparition point, still hand-in-hand.

"C'mere," he grunted, and pulled her close to him. He kissed her nose gently before they both apparated together to a small café in the outskirts of London. It was run by a squib who kept room in the back for his wizarding friends to apparate in and out as they pleased, but that was as far as the owner's kindness was extended. He was very bitter, even after fifty or so years, about his lack of wizarding power, and that was evident by his sometimes steep price increases rather than discounts.

He was utterly thankful that no wizards were enjoying coffee and small talk tonight. He'd had his fair share of long glances and threatening looks on sole account of his namesake, and frankly, he wasn't in the mood tonight to be docile. Nor, did he suspect, was Hermione in the mood for him to pick a fight, so it was just better all around.

He ordered coffee for both of them and let Hermione choose her meal. It was only gentlemanly, she understood. The squib owner served only lite fare here, but it was a tradition for consumers to order a multitude of appetisers to try them out. Hermione picked up on this faster than he'd expected, and, in her commanding nature, ordered for both of them.

She got him right, for the most part.

When their waiter left, he noticed her shooting glances over her shoulder and looking around nervously.

He raised an eyebrow in her direction. "Expecting someone?"

"No, why?"

"You can't keep your eyes off the door."

Their coffee was served, and she gestured a "thank you" to the waiter and took a delicate sip. "Is that so?" she said distantly.

"Hermione."

Her face centred on him. "What is it?"

"You're nervous."

She sighed and drummed her fingernails on the table. There was no avoiding this question any longer, and she knew it. It was more of a statement, but she recognised what it implied. "I'm sorry. It's just hard for me."

"Trust me, nobody will see us here. Look, they're all muggles."

"It's just..." she looked thoughtful for a moment. "You don't–you wouldn't understand."

The comment stung. There was only one way a Malfoy would respond to the presumptuous insult. "Do you feel guilty?" he challenged.

At first, he could see her eyes lost some of their lustre, but in seconds they were sparkling. Hermione Granger never backed down to a challenge, it was something of which his father would have approved–probably the only thing. "No," she stated firmly.

"You're lying," he smirked, a grin on his face that was none too happy. "If you didn't feel guilty, you wouldn't be looking over your shoulder every two seconds."

She clenched her teeth. "There's a difference between guilt and concern, Draco Malfoy. I can be concerned about another's well-being, right? Their emotions?" Her tone was too ominous for his tastes.

"Weasley?" he asked simply. It was more of a statement than a question, and after he said it, he looked down.

They didn't talk much the rest of the night.


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Many thanks to my new-found beta, Mauled Marionette, who now knows all my deepest darkest secrets, and helped me figure out what to do with this story somewhere in between.

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Footsteps matched hers in the narrow third-floor hallway.

"You've been avoiding me," he grunted, pushing her against a wall a bit too roughly for her tastes.

"What are you talking about?"

He groped her bum, his face two inches from hers, eyes burning wildly. "You know what I'm talking about."

She looked around anxiously. "Not here," she spat through clenched teeth.

"Are you ashamed?"

"I'm not..." she looked at him directly. "Don't be foolish, Draco. You know what's at stake."

"Yes, I know what's at stake," he said dryly. "But do you?" he whispered, and licked her ear. A hand crept up her robe and she whimpered.

"Don't be... a git..." was all she could bite out as two rough fingers massaged her panties.

"Do you want me?"

"Not here," she grunted, but he had other plans. He was angry, he wanted to know if she loved him, and he wanted the recognition. The same two fingers found their way under her knickers and she moaned against her better intentions. When he moved in to nibble at her neck, she could feel his growing erection against her abdomen. There were already so many things wrong with this picture, and yet, it took most of her judgement and self-control not to pull it out of his trousers.

A few more penetrations and he did it himself.

"Draco," she whispered, a hint of desperation in her voice. Any moment now, somebody could walk down the hall and see them. If they hadn't already, unnoticed by both of them, that is. Or perhaps just her.

And yet, there was something compelling about the risk. About being so close to getting caught, about flirting with danger. It was such a fucking turn-on, and he knew it.

About two seconds before she was sure she'd be caught _shagging _him in the corridor, he hastily moved her against a door, and with a single motion, pushed it open and managed to lock it shut.

She whispered a quiet thank you to the God in whom she did not believe that nobody was there.

It seemed to take only seconds for clothing to drop to the floor, and he'd forced her against the side of a sofa. Embraced from the back, she felt his hands exploring her thighs before he shoved her head downward, and with her body in an arch, penetrated her.

Once they had both climaxed, he laid her gently on the sofa and held her firmly in an embrace. They would have to part soon, as always, but he savoured these moments.

He bit her neck gently but she pulled away. "Malfoy." Since when had she started calling him that again? He swallowed hard and his eyes stiffened in their grey sockets. "This has got to end."

"Mmhmm," he mumbled, kissing her bare shoulders, as though he hadn't heard. The name bit only fazed him slightly.

"Malfoy."

"Mmm."

"We need to talk."

"Go ahead."

"I can't–" she pushed him away from her gently and stared at him hard. It had taken her so long to figure this one out. To rehearse it in her head over and over. But despite the perfect practices, she knew she was already jumbling it up. Because real life never went as planned. Because real life never involved her making a decision like this. "I'm getting married in a week. People are starting to suspect. Lupin knows. This is over. This has got to be over."

He stared at her blankly, and then his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but his lips clenched together once more in frustration or anger.

"It's illogical, Malfoy." He cringed at her use of his surname.

"And you're one to speak of logic?" he asked coldly. "Oh, how the tides have changed," he smirked.

"Don't you... Don't you say that. Not when you don't understand."

"What don't I understand, _Granger_?" He licked his lips. "Are you going to tell me I don't understand what love is? Because I'm not your valiant Gryffindor? What sacrifice is? Do I not understand what it is to have a moral compass the size of my _ego_, or is it just that you're afraid? You certainly aren't bored, so I suppose we can rule that one out."

"You don't–" she inhaled sharply. "Know what it's like to wake up and think that at the rate you're fucking your future husband's worst enemy, you may very well end up bearing his child."

"What would be so wrong with having my child?"

"Oh, don't pull that on me, Malfoy. And it's not like you'd want to have a half-blood attached to your name anyway."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't say that." For a moment, all that was heard was their heavy, irate breathing. "How can you say that? After all I've been through? You know I've changed–hell, you've _seen _me change. Yeah, I was a stupid fuck! Not anymore! I thought you knew that! And why the _fuck_ are you calling me that?"

"I don't know!"

"You _are _afraid! You're afraid that this might be the best thing that's happened to you, and god forbid you take advantage of it, you might actually be happy for once!"

"I am happy. Rather, I _was _happy, until you came along."

"Don't lie to yourself, Granger. You just thought you were, because everything was as it was supposed to be in your bloody calculator of a brain. How long would it have taken you to find all of Weasley's flaws? How long would it have taken for you to become miserable? Ten years, when you stop bothering to fake smiles at his exaggerated war stories? Twenty, when he starts fucking other women because you're a bore and a nag? Or would it have been fifty, when he stops fucking you all together?"

"Stop!"

"Or would it have been a few months, when you saw your best friends marry, and wondered where in the bloody fuck your knight in shining armour was? A few weeks, when you finally realise Weasley is barely a man?"

"Shut the _fuck _up. Shut up!"

"But it would all be just _swell_, because you'd have a notion of some sort of sacrifice you made. You sacrificed your happiness for the _light _side, the _good_ side, for the best friend of Harry Fucking Potter, saviour of the whole fucking world. Because you just want to be miserable; it's all you've ever wanted. It's why you don't want to grow up and break it off. But go ahead," he spat, "and sacrifice yourself for the side of justice. Then it would make you the mudblood _whore _you seem to think I make you out to be."

She slapped him across the face. "You bastard, you don't know me!" Angry, damaged tears welled in her eyes.

This stung. It was as though a best friend of ten years had accused him of never once being just that at all. She thought he didn't know her? It was an insult of the highest degree. And it was personal–not one of Weasley's stupid jabs at his father or quidditch ability. He knew things about her even her best friends could never know, just because of who he was, _what _he was. "Oh, I think I do," he said smugly. "I think I know you well enough to know you don't love _him_. Although, it doesn't take a bloody rocket scientist to figure that out."

She sputtered for a moment. "I'm going to marry Ron." She paused briefly before elaborating on that fact: "Which is why this relationship is utterly unreasonable."

"Oh, cut the crap with your logic, Hermione. You don't love him!" He screamed. His face was furtive with hatred and rage and it turned a deep reddish-purple colour. After saying so, he released his breath. Upon regaining his poise, he said curtly, "Marrying someone you don't love, now _that _sounds like the illogical feat for a feminist bitch like you." And then he turned angrily, gathering his clothes, and stormed away.

"I do love him," she whispered, although Draco was already our of earshot, tears streaming down her face. "I do love him," she wailed repeatedly to no one in particular and to no avail, but something deep down told her she wasn't even fooling herself.

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Hermione walked into her bedroom and hung her cloak on their wire coat stand.

"Where were you?" Ron mumbled, sitting on the edge of their bed, ginger hair mussed.

"I decided to take a walk," Hermione replied dutifully.

"No," Ron said quietly.

"What?"

"No," he repeated, and cleared his throat. "Last night you took a walk. Tonight you were due for a shower."

"What... what in the hell are you going on about? Of course I took a walk, and I'll decide when I take my showers myself, thank you very much."

"Oh, cut the crap, Hermione," he grunted with a look of utter revulsion plastered across his face. "Your cloak's not even cold. You're not due for another promenade until sometime next week, after you reuse your library excuse."

"Ron, what–"

"Hermione, I know you don't take walks in snow storms and midnight showers. You haven't spent the night in a library since Hogwarts."

"What the bloody–"

"–Hermione, I know you're seeing someone behind my back. I'm not half as clueless as you seem to think I am. And I know what you're thinking, I know you too well." The vitriol in his tone rose significantly with the volume of his voice. "I should have flipped a bloody shit, that's what I should have done. That would have been the Ron-Weasley-like thing to do," he snarled. "Well, Hermione, I didn't, because I thought that maybe it was something you could get out of your system and forget, and then I could have you to myself. But there's a week left before the wedding, and I can still smell him on you. I had hope, Hermione, because I love you and I wanted us to make it, that's what kind of pathetic wanker I was."

"Ron, I... he–"

"Please, Hermione," he pled, resting a hand comfortably on her arm. "I don't want to know who it is."

She nodded slowly, tears pooling in the creases of her eyes.

"I just... need to know... whom you chose."

Hermione nodded her head again, this time with greater fervency. "It's you, Ron, it's you." When she could staunch the flow of her tears no longer, she began to weep into his shoulders. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know how you could ever..." Her voice trailed off into sobs. At first, he sat unresponsive, staring into the window and contemplating his predicament. But eventually, with the sound of her wails growing louder, he found himself unable to maintain his impassive stance, and held her against his chest as a silent tear crept down his own cheek.

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"What's wrong, mate?" Harry flung the door open in an ecstatic frenzy that mocked his friend's desperation.

"Nothing," Ron mumbled.

"Something's obviously wrong, or you wouldn't be behaving so... well. Now spill."

A drawn-out sigh ensued. "It's Hermione."

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Having second thoughts, then?" At Ron's dejected glare, he sighed, "Oh, for Merlin's sake, don't get cold feet on me now."

Fury flared ion Ron's eyes. "It's always about you, isn't it? I can't back out on _you_, I can't get cold feet on _you_. What about me? I was under the impression that this was my marriage. But perhaps I've been mistaken," he spat venomously.

Something died in Harry's emerald eyes as they stared sadly into those of his best friend. Realising his mistake, Ron shook his head vigorously and inhaled deeply. "Look, Harry, I'm sorry, I really am, it's just that I'm under a lot of pressure and things–"

"No need to explain," Harry conceded, eyes twinkling emptily. "I haven't been very attentive to your problems lately." The Boy Who Lived stared sheepishly into his lap.

"Harry," Ron offered, reaching out for one of his best friend's shoulders. "Harry, it's Hermione. I can't trust her, and it's real this time." He inhaled sharply, his voice faltering.

"What? How do you know?"

"She admitted everything."

"What? What the bloody–"

"Harry."

"With Malfoy? That rat, I swear, I'll–"

"I don't know!"

"She wouldn't tell you?"

"I didn't ask."

"Oh."

Pause.

"Ron, I'm so–"

"I didn't want to know. And do you know why, Harry? It's because I'm tired. I'm tired of playing the fool. I just want somebody to care for me, somebody I can win this bloody war for. She's not perfect–nobody is–but she's the only thing I've got. I'm willing to turn a blind eye because I need to. I need to believe everything can turn out alright and we can all live happily ever fucking after, because I _need _to. So I'm not going to put up a fight. I'm tired of being that arse. Is that so wrong? Can you blame me?" Short, impassioned breaths flooded the silence that became them thereafter.

"No, Ron, it's not. And no, I can't," Harry admitted finally. "And I truly am sorry, you know that. And I'm here for you."

"Thanks."

"When this mess is over, I'm sure everyone will come to their senses. It's put pressure on all of us. In a few weeks when we beat those bloody bastards, everything will sort itself out."

"Mmmhmm."

"I mean, it's only a matter of time before–"

"Harry."

"For Merlin's sake–"

"Harry, stop. I've made my decision already, there's no need to reinforce it. I just need time. Space. Alone."

Harry stared at his friend hard. "Yeah," he gulped. "I understand." He got up to leave but turned to his friend on afterthought. "Just know I'm here for you if you need me."

Ron nodded as Harry left.

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Lupin, Tonks, Moody, Shacklebolt, MacGonnagall and the Weasleys were whispering over candlelight when the man burst in. He was staggering on a limp, clenching his arm to his chest as though his life depended on it, and they had reason to believe it did. Tonks gasped as he flipped his hair back to reveal a crooked nose and a grave face. His left eye twitched ever so slightly and the rhythm of his limp lurched forward a beat when a piece of dark cloth fell from his tattered robes. Lupin rose immediately to aid him.

He whispered something in Severus' ear that the others could not hear. This seemed to incense the spy, and he shook his head vigorously. He tried to throw Lupin off, but to no avail; his weakened body fell back into the werewolf's arms.

"Molly, he needs medical attention. Call the medi–"

"No," Snape barked hoarsely. "No, that's unnecessary. Send the Malfoy boy to my quarters, he'll know what to retrieve, and allow... me to..." His feet faltered and for a moment they thought he'd lose consciousness.

"Molly," Remus whined.

Molly Weasley rose from the table and motioned toward the floo.

"No, woman!" She flinched at his cry, and her husband rose in a protective gesture. Sweat and blood traversed Snape's face madly, strands of his black hair plastered to sunken cheeks, his eyes wild with fury. "Let me... speak... and then I will seek medical attention."

Remus shrugged and looked to his girlfriend for approval. She nodded, and he brought Severus to the table. He winced with pain as he sat at its head, and could barely pull back the cuffs of his cloak. Each motion was strained and seemed excruciatingly painful; members of the Order sitting at the table responded to all of them with uncomfortable glances and fidgeting.

"I have gone to great lengths... to ensure my secrecy... forgive me for speaking vaguely; I cannot say the names of the men I visited..." He closed his heavy, pale lids for a few moments and they thought they would lose him.

"Severus," Molly cooed, placing before him a mug of tea and massaging his shoulder.

He flinched and threw her hand off in the same manner he had attempted to throw Lupin off before. "First... they questioned my actions and involvement regarding the death of Bellatrix Lestrange... I explained it was necessary to maintain my... my..."

"Secrecy?" Tonks offered.

Snape closed his eyes once more and nodded slowly. "But the suspicion... was more complex... Molly, they wanted your sons because they believed the boys were infiltrating their potions, lowering the effects and calibre..."

Mrs Weasley's mouth dropped to the floor and she let out a dry sob. Her husband's hand found her shoulder and they embraced.

"But there was a leak... and they are aware of my actions as of now, my part in the potion-spiking. I can no longer remain a spy, I must end my espionage and fully retire to the Order, I cannot leave for medical attention, and we must initiate attack in the next few weeks..."

Finally, he lost consciousness, and Molly rushed to his aid. Draco flew down the stairs seconds later with a bubbling potion, and the rest of the bunch looked solemn and desperate.


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long. This story's sort of tapering off to an end, and to tell you the truth, I'm growing weary with it. I think now that all my computer problems are starting to wrap up, I'm going to start focusing my energy on _The Vanishing Act_, and other oneshots. The RL/SB ship has grabbed me and won't seem to let go, so I've got part of that story churning in my head also. Here's to a vast update!

**.x.**_  
_

_Frizzy ringlets pooled with her tears on the floor of her bedroom as she hacked away at the mess that was her hair. She hated the sawing sound the metal made against her tired locks, but she loved the taste of liberation. She was axing the shackles that confined her to her old life, her sins, her love. And she was sobbing, maybe from relief, maybe out of desperation. Desperation over everything–her choice, her emptiness, her life, her war._

_If this was her identity, then it would go strand by strand. _

"Hermione, what on earth did you do to your hair?" screeched Ginny, who immediately ran to grasp at frizzy locks that were no longer there.

"I cut it," Hermione replied tersely, her voice distant.

"No shit! You do realise–"

"Yeah. Just in time for our weddings."

"But why?"

Hermione shrugged. "I needed a change," she offered simply.

"Some change! Merlin, Hermione, you must've cut ten inches!" Ginny whined, toying with Hermione's shorter style.

"Yes, Ginny," she snapped. "Your observational skills never fail to astound me."

The younger woman looked hurt. "I... I didn't mean it like that; I'm sure we can find something to do with it for tomorrow."

Hermione smirked at Ginny's sole concern. "Frankly, I couldn't care less what _we _do with my hair tomorrow. This isn't the bloody apocalypse. I cut my hair. Big fucking deal."

Ginevra feigned surprise. "Hermione! This is supposed to be the best day of your–"

"Yeah, the best day of my life. But it's just like any other day, in any other war. People will still die, we'll still take the same losses. But if you want to worry about my hair, and other such frivolities, be my guest."

Ginny pursed her lips. "Well, then." She paused for dramatic effect. "I guess I'll be off. I'm sure Ron will be pleased to see that you look like a dyke." With that, she stormed out of the room, her own fiery locks billowing behind her.

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Draco sat with moonlight pounding his back, hands clasped in desperation. His professor lay feet from where he hunched, nearly lifeless, any blood he had left drained from his face to give him a chalkier-white complexion. Before, his apprentice had tended to his wounds, but now Draco needed to tend to his own. Severus would be fine in a few days. Weaker, maybe, but broken ribs and gashes heal far faster than any crevasse in the heart.

It wasn't that Snape didn't have demons, too. He did; Draco knew he did, but he was always more skilled in concealing them. Draco didn't know which was better: burying heartbreak where not even Voldemort could detect it, or lashing out. In some ways, the former was nobler. His father always taught him, first and foremost, never to involve himself in what the elder Malfoy called "women's harlequinades"–with curse words circumspectly intertwined with little concern for tact–but secondly, if the occasion should arise, never to reveal himself or his emotions. Never sleep with a mudblood would probably have come before both rules, but Draco supposed that went unsaid in his household. What was clearly dictated was that emotions delineated weakness, and weakness was definitely not power, so it was all in futility. It was understood that only power mattered in the grand scheme of things, and anything or any person that could hinder its effectiveness would be... "dealt with," to put it lightly. Malfoy men had their affairs, no doubt, but when the ends came chasing down the means, if your name was Malfoy, you'd better be lying next to your beautiful, pure-bred pure-blooded wife, and you'd better like it. He was certain his father was capable of passion, of fire and lust and rousing scandal, but as far as the rest of the wizarding world was concerned, his eye remained could as ice, in accordance to his shoulders.

A pang of nostalgia overcame him as he thought of his father, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was to see Pansy. To hold her, to kiss her, to notice the little things about her and to ignore her all the same. He hadn't missed her before–not even when they were engaged–but now, he'd do anything to be with her. He was so alone, so empty. She could fill that void, she could assuage his pain.

But she could never assuage his guilt. Finding solace was never his intent. He didn't come to the Order to avoid loneliness or to reverse his depression. If he'd wanted that, he'd have left the country. Maybe found a place by the Seine, a nice villa where he and Pans could drink Martinis all day and sit on their arses, reflecting upon their worthless lives.

He remembered how she had been the night before he left the second time. He was nervous as hell, snapping at her right and left. He wasn't even certain he wanted to leave, but every time he doubted himself, he remembered his mother.

His mother. The shallowest of the Black sisters. His mother, the one who had raised him alone when he hadn't a father to step in. His mother who had spoiled him as a child and tended to him as an adult. The woman who had sacrificed so much for him. For them, for her family.

She had been pregnant when Draco was called to his initiation. Voldemort had already done with Lucius what he wished; there was no use to torturing a perfectly capable youth. Or so he had thought. Severus's words rang in the back of his mind. _I cannot bring you to headquarters with such instilled prejudice._ Prejudice? What was the world without prejudice? What was his purpose without prejudice? Of course he had prejudice... didn't the Order? And if they didn't, what was so pristine and glorious about it? What had Snape meant? And then there was the bit about failing him. He had been so serious, so deathly stern. If anything, he should have accused Draco of just what he blamed himself for. He hadn't failed Draco. Draco was fine. Draco had everything again. Including his prejudice.

Didn't he?

He didn't show up at his initiation. It was too much.

His mother lost the baby.

Remembering it reminded him of his purpose. And there he was, with Pansy. Pansy Parkinson, who could never understand what it was to be the cause of somebody else's unhappiness. To fail someone else. Because despite what the man thought, he had failed Severus, he'd failed him in so many ways. He'd caused him all that pain, all that suffering and sacrifice, only to slight him by returning to the Death Eaters. And he'd done the same to his father, and now his mother.

All for some masochist who owned his family. Yes, Voldemort owned his family. His mother and father were so confined now by the Dark Lord that even if they wanted to, they could not leave him. Sometimes, he wondered if they ever wanted to leave. To run away, to evade all the pain wrought unto them. He suspected it was too late, now. That they were in too deep to change course.

He, however, still had the luxury. He could leave now, and save face. He'd been studying the Dark Lord, his past, and his plans. He knew about the Horcuxes. He knew about Voldemort's father, too.

Traitor. Hypocrite.

_Mudblood._

So many words came to mind that it humbled him. To think, all this time, all these prestigious men were fighting for nothing.

He would rather die for something than fight for nothing. He'd rather make something of himself worthwhile than end up like his father. He wanted nothing more than to tell Pansy, than to convince her that what he was doing was right. He had wanted to bring her along.

But watching her, he knew it could never happen. She was sprawled out on his bed, twirling her dark hair around a finger and staring into his ceiling.

"You know, Draco, if you think about it, marriage is just an excuse."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Society's excuse for a good fuck. Honestly, I doubt there's any more to it."

"All right."

"Because nothing's going to change between us, really."

He had nothing left to say. His mind was a thousand miles away. He was leaving tomorrow for good. Leaving to find a horcrux, to see the world, to figure everything out, for once.

"Will it?"

"Nah, Pans, we'll be okay."

She sighed, contentedly. She hadn't noticed he could barely utter the words. Despite his reservations about her density, he couldn't bear to lie to her.

"So when are we going to do it? Can't we just set a date?"

"I dunno." He knew he was hurting her. He knew he was going to hurt her. And if he could have just told her that date, just let her know in advance that he was still going to care about her, he would have. In retrospect, it seemed, he'd done so many things wrong.

And now he'd done his job wrong. Not the righteousness part. He came clean, and he was satisfied with what he'd done. It was everything else. It was the doubt and the pain and the sacrifice.

Falling for Hermione Granger was never part of the plan. So losing her could not change his course of action. If anything, it would allow him to do his job better with fewer distractions. He should have been happy she ended it. But he wasn't, not even a little bit. The thought of her with any other man–let alone Ron Weasley–made him want to hurl. And did she mean what she said when she so confidently affirmed that she loved him? At the time, in all his arrogance, he refused to believe it was true, but given time to consider it, he decided that his initial analysis could have been mistaken.

He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself that what they had was nothing.

Of all the things he was, stupid was not one of them. Not even Draco Malfoy was a good enough liar to fool himself.

He couldn't desert his mission, but he had to get away, and quickly. He doubted Shacklebolt would let him switch posts, given his history, but Shacklebolt wouldn't have to know. Snape would be well in a few days; he would know what the Dark Lord was planning. If he wouldn't help Draco, he at least wouldn't try to stop him. He'd get out of this hell-hole, and he'd do it right.

Everybody had a war.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Most people didn't even think twice anymore about Hermione being a witch. Most people, aside from Draco, that is. Indeed, she'd fashioned her mask quite nicely over the years, so that what hid behind the book-smarts was unrecognizable. If she knew so much about the wizarding world, who would think she was a muggle-born?

A _mudblood_?

She'd grown accustomed to her mask; she'd decorated and polished it, she'd tested it on many and sundry a wizard. It passed, top scores across the board. Nobody would know. If Hermione was good at everything, her knack for concealing herself was ten times more incredible. But she was a muggle-born, and it never left her. Because despite the fact that she used her innate bookishness for hiding herself, it was still innate. It made her, well, her. And so she knew about Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.

Cranmer, she'd read, was Henry VIII's right-hand man, and, despite his title, a Protestant. But when the king died, Cranmer found himself at the service of his Roman Catholic daughter Mary. He recanted his beliefs to stay out of prison.

She pressed her body against the doorway, hesitating for more than a moment, and considered the man. He was a scholar, a learned man, with a wife and a family. He did what he had to do. And anyway, as long as he knew what he believed, what did it matter that other people knew not?

_Deep breaths, Hermione. Deep breaths._ With one swift hand motion, she pushed the door open.

"Ron?" She walked into the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

He did not move from where he sat, not even to look at her. She could hear him breathing heavily, pushing Sisyphus's stone up his own mountain.

"Ron?"

"Just tell me that you love me. It's all I need to hear."

"What? I–"

"Just say it, Hermione," he whispered, pleading.

"I love you. And I don't need you to force me to say it, because it's true."

"And everything will be all right after this?"

"Ronald."

"Just–" he inhaled sharply, but still did not turn to face her.

"Ron, we're going to make it. We're going to fix us. I promise that, but it's all I can promise." She rushed to his side and lifted his face toward hers. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her, and she exhausted most of her energy trying to hold his gaze.

"You couldn't just bend the truth for one moment?"

Guilt tied itself into a knot in her stomach at his words. She shook her head, eliciting a pained half-smile from him.

"Didn't think so."

Silence.

"Things won't be okay between us."

"I know."

At that moment, Harry and Ginny burst through the door, holding hands. Flanking them was a tall, bearded man who looked distinctly like Albus Dumbledore. Squinting for a closer look, Hermione discerned that it was, indeed, Aberforth. Lupin and Tonks trailed behind him, hands also laced.

Harry, a broad smile stretched across his face, whispered something into Ginny's ear, and she laughed nervously. Hermione couldn't tell whether it was because she was about to become a bride, or because she was about to marry his destiny, too. Because whatever happened to Harry was going to happen to Ginny, now, as the Wife of the Boy Who Lived–and hopefully Who Survived.

Hermione couldn't bear to think of what he would be called otherwise.

As soon as Ginny laid eyes on her, her expression went sour. Evidently, holding grudges ran in the family. Ron refused to hold Hermione's gaze, but at last his roughened hand reached for hers and they entwined like the world depended on it. And in some ways, it did.

"Now we wait," Aberforth said officially, although everyone in the room knew him to be the farthest thing from it. It was true that he'd been quite a help in the months directly succeeding Albus's death, but the truth of the matter was, he wasn't a bartender for no reason. They figured Albus knew the best place for him would be somewhere rather shady, where he wouldn't have to practice too much magic, but still where he could pass information to the Order whenever he overheard something interesting. Nobody gave Aberforth a second thought; it was why he was perfect, other than the fact that listening to drunkards in a bar tended to yield its benefits to the sober. But there was more to Albus's brother than most would suspect–and what they suspected was a rather slow wizard who was willing to employ less-than-dignified means to achieve his ends. And so, the Hog's Head regulars would spill their darkest secrets to Albus's Slytherin counterpart between firewhiskies, and nobody would know any different.

Nobody spoke for a good minute or so; the only sound in the room was that of the seven of them breathing, but the glow emanating from Harry and Ginny spoke volumes. Or, rather, screamed it. It seemed Ron and Hermione had made a silent pact, and although more solemn, had a relative understanding.

"In the name of Godric Gryffindor, those parents of ours had better show up soon, Ron," Ginny whined. "Or else we'll just have to do it without them."

Harry stared at her, gleaming. "We'll have the rest of our lives to wait, Gin. No point in worrying now."

A deathly silence pierced the room, and Remus exchanged an uneasy look with Tonks for good measure. Everyone knew they might not have the rest of their lives. It lasted a few minutes before Ron spoke under his breath.

"Honestly, she's right," he muttered. "Best get this over with."

"Ron," Hermione teased playfully, but the look in his eye told her to back down. She squeezed her hand more tightly around his, and they waited.

After what seemed like a decade, but was probably, in actuality, only a few minutes, Mrs Weasley opened the door and ushered her husband in. She seemed to be wearing a derivate of Ron's fourth year dress robes. Hermione didn't so much as crack a smile, but she could tell Ron was doing his best not to burst into laughter. In their haste, they had only managed to don casual robes. Hermione looked down at them and nearly chuckled they were so ridiculous. This was anything but the fairy-tale wedding Hermione had imagined as a child, but times were different, and it would do.

"Sorry we're late, dears," Mrs Weasley exclaimed, gleaming. "But, erm, we have a surprise–Arthur?"

"Oh, right, yes." Mr Weasley cleared his throat. "Um, any minute now. _Any _minute now."

It took less than a minute. Soon they were joined by a rather tanned Bill Weasley (with Fleur, of course), as well as a glowing Charlie. They both nodded to Ron, who flushed a bright purple colour, then offered Ginny broad smiles.

"Hey, little brother," Bill teased, and Charlie let out a hearty laugh.

"Mum, I thought you said we were going to keep this small," Ron pled. "You know, what with, erm, You-Know-Who and all."

"We are," came a voice from the door. It was Hagrid.

Harry's face lit up immediately. Ron merely brought two fingers to his temple.

_"My little girl!"_

_"Molly, shush, honestly."_

"Ah, right," Aberforth announced, evidently excited. "Well then, let's get started. Is everyone here who intended to be here?"

"Aye."

"Well, I'll be damned. Now, I'm no minister or nothin', but I've a license to marry." That was another thing about Aberforth; Albus was right in saying he was a bit... odd. For lack of a better term. "Now for the unbreakable vow."

The guests exchanged glances as to say that they knew it was a joke, but still had a few doubts.

"Er... Aberforth?"

"Oh, right, not this time." He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes a few times, seeming to be literally searching for the words in his brain. Hermione could have sworn she saw his temples glow a faint blue before he finally spoke. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today, in the face of this company, to join these men and women in holy matrimony, the most honourable of covenants, wizarding and muggle alike. If anyone sees a reason that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley or Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Her eyes darted around the room anxiously, but there was no Draco to save her.

It didn't matter, she told herself, because she didn't want to be saved. There was nothing from which to be saved. She would be happy then, and she would be happy forever, married to Ron.

But a part of her still ached, despite all her good and righteous reasoning. Damn her and her Gryffindor tendencies. If she had any sense–or Slytherin–in her, she would simply go the route of self-preservation. Not this permanent pseudo-solution to a temporary problem. Anything but this.

"Right-o, look at that. S'pose not. Moving on, then!"

Her mind was racing. She hadn't been nervous a minute ago, but now she couldn't seem to stop her stomach from doing somersaults in its cavity. This was it. She was to be married. Tied down to Ronald Weasley for the rest of her life, so long as they both shall live.

"Erm, let's see." Aberforth looked up pensively, with two fingers to his beard. "Ah, yes, who is giving these brides in Holy Matrimony to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley?"

It was a tough moment, because despite her most avid intents, Hermione knew it was not feasible to bring her parents to the wedding. She'd done her best during her school years to keep her family out of danger by feeding them only the minimal information about the wizarding world. Oh, you defeated Vol-dy-mort during your first year of Hogwarts? That's nice, dear. Children died during your second, and you were in grave danger for the majority of the time? Hmm, that's quite interesting. Yes, quite interesting indeed. And the same went for the rest of her years at Hogwarts until she told them she would pursue a career in the wizarding world. They seemed elated for her opportunity, and barely thought twice of the dangers. She didn't necessarily lie to them–she just nodded when they made broad assumptions and didn't tell the "whole" truth. And that's all she left to them. Nods and subtle agreements.

When things turned ugly, she vowed not to bring them into it. Coming to her wedding would count for one of those things which constituted "putting them in mortal peril." She'd seen too many of her peers lose their parents to the Dark Lord–her muggle-born peers, whose parents couldn't have known any better–and she simply did not have the stomach for her own parents' deaths. It was almost unfair that people died for their relatives whom they knew oh-too-little about. For a world whose surface they had only brushed lightly, dipping their toes in to test it out before flinging their offspring into it. No, her parents could be at other things. Just not her wedding. Just not this.

She figured she'd tell them she eloped. And technically, she would have.

"I am," Arthur Weasley voiced, and her nerves settled a bit. Here was a man who would take care of her in ways her own father could not, by no fault of his own. She felt safe. She felt like she was in Draco's arms again.

Aberforth cleared his throat, and said something along the lines of marriage being a sacred covenant sustained by love, not to be taken lightly, and preserved by faith in one another, and whatever else he said, Hermione did not know, for her thoughts had distracted her. Perhaps it was the pounding in her brain, or the endless wracking of it. Sure, marriage was a sacred covenant. No, she couldn't get out of it (very easily). But she wanted it. It would be no different than not being married, only now they'd have an excuse to shag as often as they did. And maybe have a child. Yes, she supposed, marriage is just a precursor for child-bearing. But the thought disgusted her. How could she raise a child in a world ravaged by war? How could she raise a child when she well knew it could be subject to the tortures of prejudice and bigotry? Violence? Death? She didn't know which of the three was worse.

"... entering holy estate of a experience and divine love. Now, erm, do you have the rings? Right, yes, carrying on. Do you, Harry Potter, take Ginevra Weasley to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to hold, to honour and to keep, in sickness and in health, in richness as in poor, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, in the holy estate of matrimony so long as you both shall live?"

Harry and Ginny exchanged their "I dos" shakily, and Hermione found her mind drifting once more. The room had eyes, and they were all on her, boring into her, reading her thoughts. So she tried not to think it. She tried her very hardest, but she failed; the only thing at which Hermione Jane Granger did not succeed was fooling herself, she was that clever. Sometimes too clever. Sometimes she wished she weren't so clever, so that she wouldn't get herself into these elaborate situations, so that she wouldn't have difficult choices to make, so that she wouldn't have to be clever to make those choices.

It was just too soon. She needed to get out. Her head was throbbing, her thoughts racing through her mind like it was a quidditch field. There was no way out. She couldn't stop now, it was too late. And she couldn't pick her feet up to run, either; they were glued firmly to the ground.

No, this was normal. Typical wedding jitters. She was about to be a bride, after all, and she could only be a bride once in her life.

"Miss Granger?"

Her mind snapped back to reality. "I do," she gulped, and offered Ron a reassuring smile. Her hand was shaking violently when she gave it to Ron to place on her finger a smooth golden band. She wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't because of him that the supposed best moment of their lives into an awkward one. He finally managed to shove the ring on and she did the same to him, but his hand stayed firm and resolute, akin to his facial expression.

Aberforth Dumbledore seemed to have lost his place in the service; Hermione doubted he actually memorised it at all, but rather charmed it temporarily into his mind. The spell was wearing off, evidently, because for a few minutes he stared at the ceiling, eyes swimming in "what to do nexts." He ended clumsily with a terse "you may kiss the brides," and then smiled triumphantly, very pleased with his achievement.

By the time Ron and Hermione had ended their brief, open-mouthed kiss, Harry and Ginny were just getting started, it seemed. They were so very much in love that it made Hermione want to vomit.

Everyone else seemed to enjoy the display. Remus Lupin so much so that he took it upon himself to kiss Nymphadora, who, by that time in the ceremony–however abridged–was probably considering her own wedding to a certain werewolf. There were cheers from the small audience, and everything was a'bustle when the two couples went to sign their marriage contracts.

These magical artifacts were originally completely binding, but recent, hip-er decades had forced that sort of thing out. Whatever the logistics, they were still magical, and signing them meant a magical binding. It was the sort of thing one did not play games with.

Hermione signed it with a flourish of her pen. Dip, dip, swirl, curl, sign, swoop, loop, loop, dip, sign.

Her mind drifted back to sixteenth century England.

Thomas Cranmer, after being convicted for heresy, was sentenced to burn to death, like he was some sort of common witch. There he stood, atop his pillar, calm and collected. Calm and collected–as he stared death in its hideous face! He watched the flames that would soon asphyxiate him dance around him before shouting, "I have sinned, in that I signed with my hand what I did not believe with my heart. When the flames are lit, this hand shall be the first to burn," and he triumphantly cast his right hand into the fire.

She stared at her own right hand, unable to breathe.


End file.
